


Courting Trouble

by ficbear



Series: Gunsel Sidestories [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Sex, Bondage, Come Swallowing, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Drunk Sex, Exhibitionism, Facials, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mirror Sex, Nonmonogamous Relationship, Older Man/Younger Man, Oral Sex, Organized Crime, Riding Crops, Rimming, Rough Sex, Spitroasting, Threesome - M/M/M, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-06
Updated: 2014-12-06
Packaged: 2018-02-28 10:08:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 40,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2728403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ficbear/pseuds/ficbear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Those two," he said, pointing a lacquered nail towards their table, "they might be slumming it tonight, but there's big money behind them. Watch your step, though, if you fancy going after a piece of it—they're up to their eyeballs in shady business, and I mean the bad stuff, darling."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

I have never been a sensible person. I should have gone into a trade when I left school, like all the other boys did. I should have thought carefully and pragmatically about my future. I should have cut my hair short, put away my colourful, impractical clothes, and worked my fingers to the bone in a factory or a workshop or a garage. The problem was that I am as inclined towards hard work as I am towards being sensible. I am neither practical nor industrious. So, I kept my hair long enough to graze my cheekbones. I kept my garish clothes, and added more. And worst of all, I ran away from home, to be—of all things—an artist.

But what does an artist _do_? Well, according to the eighteen-year-old Stefan, he buys cheap oils and canvases, daubs a little, and then waits for some kind of magic to occur, by which those daubings are transmuted into money. You will be shocked, I'm sure, to hear that such magic never occurred. Very quickly I spent what money I'd taken with me, and equally quickly I wore out the goodwill of the few friends around me who were inclined to be charitable. And that, my dears, is how Stefan the Artist became Stefan the Shop Boy. From then on, I moved from city to city, working whatever jobs I could pick up, staying in the cheapest flat-shares and boarding-houses I could find. As long as I never had to go home, I thought, it would be enough. I did the best I could. I got by. And I never, ever lost my inherent frivolity. Any spare money I had went on second-hand clothes, costume jewellery, cheap hair dye and market-stall make-up. Necessity could make a drudge out of me—but never a frump.

It was during those years of cut-price couture that I developed what would become my next improbable ambition. I loved dressing myself, clearly. I loved dressing my friends, when they could be persuaded to submit to my attentions. Why not allow the world to pay me for using this obvious talent? Costume design was for me, I decided. I belonged in the theatre, and the title of Wardrobe Master had a very nice ring to it, I thought. Well, if you want to be involved in the theatre, there's only really one place to go, isn't there? Unless you can afford to move down south, that is, and if you could afford that, then you wouldn't be working behind the perfume counter at Kendal's, now, would you? So, my ambition and I moved west, into a tiny little bedroom in a tiny little flat, with a tiny little fragment of a sea view just visible through the kitchen window. It was ghastly, draughty, dusty, and full of mould, but in a way I'm grateful for that awfulness. It was what made moving here affordable in the first place. If it wasn't for that disgusting hovel of a flat, I would never have come here, and I would never have met Vic.

I heard rumours about Vic and his brother almost as soon as I arrived. Everyone knew who they were. Their reputation had been in place for years, and in fact, when I came to town, one of the first things my new flatmate did on our tour of the nightlife was to point out the twins and give me the lowdown.

"Those two," he said, pointing a lacquered nail towards their table, "they might be slumming it tonight, but there's big money behind them. Watch your step, though, if you fancy going after a piece of it—they're up to their eyeballs in shady business, and I mean the bad stuff, darling."

I rolled my eyes. "They're up to their eyeballs in _boys_ , by the look of them."

I was watching Ray whispering something into the ear of one of the boys sitting next to him, who giggled loudly and ridiculously, just as I would've done in his place. Then my eyes moved to Vic, who had a pair of simpering teenagers in shimmery suits flanking him, and who was staring stormy-faced at his drink. Now, Vic and Ray were good-looking even then, you'll get no argument from me on that point. He looks better now, of course, but even at that age Vic had a kind of weathered, solid look about him, a layer of chipped, worn character over the glossy handsome base. That night, he was wearing a beautiful indigo suit, a dark grey shirt, a glorious violet brocade tie, and an expression that suggested he was considering crushing the glass in his hand. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't tempted. But I'd only just got here, and I had no intention of courting trouble so soon after my arrival. I usually like to let trouble find me, in its own time.

" _You_ could be next!" my flatmate cried, swinging his finger around to point at me.

"Oh, no," I said, wrinkling my nose. "Not my cup of tea, dear."

"No?" He frowned. "Something a bit rougher, then?"

"Something a bit richer," I laughed. "I've got expensive tastes, I can't settle for merely _big_ money—it must be positively _colossal_!"

But of course, there wasn't any bigger money in town than the notorious Mr Middleton and his protégés, and I wasn't about to wade into the midst of all that in a hurry. So I spent a couple of years working very dull jobs, and going out with only marginally less dull men, and all in all, I played it very safe indeed. Eventually, I managed to trade up from shop-work to an office job, and I left my cheap little flat-share for a miniscule place of my own. I had some privacy, finally, and even a bit of money left over each month after the bills were paid. I was happy, after a fashion.

Happy, but bored. Deathly bored.

The nearest thing to excitement that I'd had all year was a brief, secret fling with my section manager at work. He was nice-looking enough, I suppose, and the cloak-and-dagger approach gave me a thrill. But it had no _flair_. There was nothing in it to keep me warm and glowing when I went home afterwards. I wanted more: more excitement, more drama, more colour. And I knew exactly where to get it.


	2. Chapter 2

"No-one's going thirsty tonight," Ray said loudly, waving his arm in a broad, expansive gesture. "Especially no-one with a pretty face."

The boys around him laughed, some cheerfully, and some rather more disdainfully, but when the waiter brought the next round of drinks across, each one of them had the same glimmer of hunger and gratitude in their eyes. I wondered how many of them had spent their whole month's budget on the outfit that got them through the door tonight, as I had. I wondered how many of them would be eating out of tins for weeks to make up for it, as I would. I was sitting a few tables away, but it was close enough to see what I needed to see. I could watch the way Vic and Ray talked to the boys, I could see who got their special attention, who got on their nerves, who was dismissed with a wave of the hand. I had found a perfect reconnaissance position, and even if I had to skip meals for a month to pay for it, it would be worth it. I would _make_ it worth it.

My main observation by that point in the evening was that getting to know the twins would be beneficial for my wardrobe, if nothing else. They looked exquisite, and they were dressed the most alike I'd ever seen them, in greyish-brown suits, with Ray's thinly pinstriped and Vic's faintly windowpane-checked. The shirts and ties were different but related, too; maroon for Ray and lavender for Vic, with the same fine damask weave on the silk of both ties. It was clear that they shared a tailor, of course, but to me it was equally clear that the same guiding hand was steering both of them, and, just as importantly, signing the cheques. I'd heard about Mr Middleton, obviously, but until that moment I'd never been more than a little bit curious to meet him. Looking at Vic and his brother, and the flair with which they'd been dressed, I suddenly felt that idle curiosity bloom into determination. I was going to get involved with at least one of the twins, I decided—and what's more, I was going to meet their mentor.

Where they looked exquisite, I had to settle for merely attention-grabbing. My suit was a close-fitting black velvet number, with a lilac lining that made me want to slip the jacket on and off all night. My shirt was midnight-blue satin—silk was way beyond my reach, even second-hand—and my tie was a slightly lighter shade, so that the overall effect was that of a night sky brightening into twilight. When I put the outfit together, I'd been so taken with the image that I added a diamante tie-pin and cuff-links, to play the role of stars. My powdered-pale face was the moon, I decided, and my freshly-dyed hair was its platinum halo. I was serene and still, calm and cool, the embodiment of the cusp of dawn, spoiled only by the chirping of one lone, very shrill wren.

"Remind me again _why_ I'm spending my Friday night in an overpriced ballroom, buying overpriced cocktails, watching a couple of glorified hitmen drinking their way through their boss's dirty money?" Terence said, pursing his lips. The only reason he'd come is that I'd begged him to, and he was clearly not happy.

"Oh, do shut up," I hissed. Terence was the closest thing I had to a friend, and I didn't like him at all. He was a senior clerk in the department across the hall from mine, and we'd gotten talking one day in the canteen when I complimented his hair. It turned out, as it so often does, that the flame-red dye-job was the most interesting thing about him, and yet he was still the only person in the building who even vaguely resembled me in temperament or interests. We'd become friends almost by default. What that meant, in practical terms, is that we'd keep each other company on nights like this—and let me tell you, many were the evenings I squandered tagging along while Terence chased sailors at one of those dockside bars—but when push came to shove, we got rid of each other just as soon as we felt confident we could go it alone.

"Oh, am I spoiling the mood?" he said, smiling. "How inconsiderate of me."

"If you aren't enjoying yourself, by all means, feel free to call it a night," I said, returning his smile. "After all, you do need your beauty sleep, dear."

"You're hardly daisy-fresh yourself, darling," he said, as he got to his feet. "You're twenty-five years old, Stefan—a little too old to be going googly-eyed over some overdressed thugs, don't you think?" He turned on his heel without waiting for an answer, and stalked off through the crowd.

"Sleep well, sweetheart!" I called after him, waving.

When I turned back to the table, I saw that Vic was staring directly at me. Perhaps it wasn't the most graceful way to get his attention, but at least he was looking at me. At least his eyes were on me, rather than the half-dozen boys clustered around him and his brother. I smiled at him, and very briefly, very slightly, almost imperceptibly, he smiled back. I had the scent of my prey now. There was blood in the water, and I was on the attack. I got up, and made my way slowly over to his table. He wasn't looking in my direction any more, but the boys sitting beside him certainly were, and you could almost hear their claws being unsheathed. I was undeterred. I positioned myself at the midpoint between Vic and his brother, but it was him I addressed my opening line to, him my eyes were fixed on, him I had a sudden almost painful pang of hunger for.

"Would you mind if I joined you?" I said, letting my fingertips stroke along the fold of the tablecloth, as if I could lay claim to a spot just by touching it. "My friend deserted me, and I'm sure if I spend the evening alone I'll end up getting into all kinds of trouble."

There was only a second's silence, but it held so much. The frowns and pouts of the other boys, glinting at the edge of my vision. The hardness of Vic's unsmiling lips, and the deep brown void of his eyes. The tightness in my throat and the sudden lightheaded feeling that every cocktail I'd drunk tonight had ganged up on me at once.

"Sure," Ray said, grabbing my arm. "You can keep me company."

He pulled me down onto his lap with the kind of jovial, tipsy carelessness he was famous for, but there was something in his eyes underneath that affable good cheer. I felt as if I were being measured and classified. So many people take Ray entirely at face value, and eventually suffer for it. I consider it one of the few achievements of my youth that, even then, I was able to spot a glimpse of what really goes on inside him.

"I'm grateful, of course," I said, sliding an arm around his shoulder, "but won't I need a chair of my own?"

"Well, if you want to be old-fashioned about it…" he laughed, and pulled an empty chair over from the table beside us. He watched me as I slipped off his lap and into the chair, and the expression on his face was perfectly casual, perfectly pleasant. Nevertheless I understood the situation as clearly as if he'd sent me a telegram, and the message was: _I know your game, sunshine_. I didn't let bother me. In fact, I was quite flattered.

"What are you celebrating?" I laid my hand on Ray's arm, but I glanced at Vic as I spoke.

"The coppers doing their job for once." Vic said with a grimace, as if the word was bitter on his tongue.

Ray smiled, and shook his head. "Just a bit of business, nothing worth getting into."

"Oh, is it top-secret?" I laughed. "Don't worry, I can be _extremely_ discreet."

"No-one," Ray said, putting his hand on top of mine, "should ever ask a boy like you to be discreet."

 _Yes,_ I thought to myself, _you're quite right, no-one should!_ And the ghost of the office manager flitted by in the background of my memory, shushing me and putting a spectral finger to his lips. I found the appreciation in Ray's voice as heady as those cocktails, and even though I'd set out that night aiming for Vic, I found myself warming to his brother. It's one of Ray's many talents, that ability to distract and win over anyone that strays into his orbit. Vic, on the other hand, couldn't win over a dog if he had his pockets full of steak.

"A boy like me?" I said, turning all of my attention to Ray. "And what kind of boy is that, exactly?"

I find such questions very useful. They allow the man you're with to tell you exactly what he's looking for, exactly what dance you'll need to do to get into his favour. They make it so easy. They almost feel like cheating.

"Adventurous," he said, "and carefree."

 _Highly-sexed and unlikely to hang around in the morning getting under your feet_ , I thought. Part one I could certainly provide, and although part two went against my inherently lazy nature, I felt good-humoured enough to go along with it.

"You can tell all that just by looking at me?" I giggled, and propped my chin up with my hand. "Can you read minds?"

"Maybe," he laughed. "Just a quick skim, of course. Wouldn't want to be impolite about it."

"Oh, and can you tell what I'm thinking now?"

"You're thinking," he said, quieter and softer, "that if I really want to be polite, I ought to at least buy you a drink before I take you home."

"Uncanny," I said, smiling up into those brown-velvet eyes. "Except that I don't care at all about politeness."

 

* * *

 

"Look at you," Ray said, as he shoved me up against the window, "you love it, don't you?"

"Mm," I said, nodding, "and now the whole seafront can see how much…"

He'd put all the lights on as soon as we got into the apartment, and he'd made a point of leaving the curtains open, too. It was pitch-black outside, and from the promenade I imagined those huge windows would look like broad, golden cinema screens. Perhaps we were too high up for anyone to make out much detail, but even the idea of showing myself off was exciting. I dreamed up an audience of admirers, some older and nonchalant about their enjoyment of the sight, some my age and seethingly envious, some younger, more innocent, struggling to hide their shock. As he started to fuck me again, I wondered how many other boys Ray had put up on this makeshift stage.

"You like being watched, don't you?" he said, catching my eye in the window's reflection.

"I'm a terrible show-off," I said, holding his gaze. "I'll do anything if there's an audience involved." I was toying with myself idly as he fucked me, bracing one arm against the glass and stroking myself slowly with my free hand.

"Maybe I should've brought one of the other boys back too, so you could put on a show for me," he said. "Maybe that friend of yours that deserted you."

"Mm, perhaps you should have," I murmured. I was trying to decide whether, for the right incentive, I would actually agree to fuck Terence. Then Ray gripped my waist a little tighter, and drove his cock into me a little deeper, a little faster, and I thought: _Yes, yes I would, and I'd do a lot more besides._

"Over here, I want to see your face," Ray said suddenly, dragging me by the arm away from the window. He led me over to the sofa and pushed me down onto it, and I let myself fall rather carelessly into position, enjoying the roughness of it, and yet somehow not wanting to ask for more. I would have preferred it if Ray had actually thrown me down there, if he'd held me down with a tight hand on the wrists or the throat, but an odd kind of shyness stopped me from asking for what I really wanted. I simply lay there and hoped that, by chance, he would give me the rougher treatment I craved. A little of the teenaged-Stefan's magical thinking, perhaps.

He began to fuck me again, holding my legs apart by the knees, and he set a frantic pace right away. I'd been fairly loud in my appreciation when we were standing up, and now, spread out on my back, with Ray hammering into me as if he meant to snap me like a wishbone, I was completely abandoned. What I couldn't express in words, I put into the gasps and moans he knocked out of me—and, for all my silent wishing that he would go further and cross the line into cruelty, Ray was still the roughest man I'd ever been fucked by, still the closest to the villain I'd been dreaming of for years.

"Yeah, that's right," he muttered, as if he were talking to himself. I braced myself automatically; I know an amber light when I see one. Sure enough, he pulled out suddenly a few seconds later, and began to work his hand feverishly over his cock. I wish I could tell you what his face looked like as he came, whether his mask slipped at all, whether he seemed to lose control or at least to give a portion of it up to pleasure. But my mind was on other things, and my eyes were fixed on his hand, on his cock as he stroked it, on his come as it arced and fell in heavy streaks across my skin. I was utterly absorbed in the sight, and so I missed the only chance I would ever get.

"Now I want to see you come," Ray said before he'd even caught his breath, and took hold of my cock. "Show me."

I nodded, and half-closed my eyes as he began to stroke me. My mind drifted, of course, as it always does in these situations. At first it drifted onto a revised version of what we'd just done, with every detail tweaked to satisfy my requirements. I thought of his hand twisting in my hair as he fucked me, pulling it so hard I couldn't help crying out. I thought of the names I wanted to be called, all those wonderful words that go to your head like a bottle of gin and make your cheeks burn like a slap in the face. I thought of cruel hands holding my throat, my wrists, my ankles, leaving bruises all over me. But slowly, those hands stopped belonging to Ray, and began to belong to Vic. Slowly my fantasies defected, and I replaced Ray ruthlessly in every scene. It was Vic's voice I heard in my head, calling me those beautifully lurid names, and Vic's eyes watching me, and Vic's hand stroking me, manipulating me, overwhelming me. When I came, I had to bite my lip to keep the wrong name from spilling out.

A little twinge of guilt bothered me, afterwards. I lay there for a minute or so with my eyes closed, out of breath and feeling slightly sorry for Ray. I knew it couldn't have been the first time he'd taken a boy home who ended the night feeling as if he'd won the consolation prize. On the other hand, I thought, the situation probably happened quite frequently in reverse. Vic could have been in his own apartment at that very minute, fucking a boy who had aimed for Ray and missed. I found the thought quite exciting, and I let the idea play through my mind for a few seconds, long enough to wonder whether perhaps I had enough energy in me for a second round. Then a polite cough interrupted my train of thought, and I opened my eyes.

"Well," Ray said, throwing me a little hand-towel and feigning a yawn that was so clearly false it was an insult to both of us. "I've got an early start tomorrow, so…"

"Oh, of course," I said, sitting up and beginning to dry myself off. For a moment I wanted to ask whether clocking in at nine on the dot was a common occurrence in underworld organisations, and whether it would really have been such a terrible burden to let me sleep in one of the three or four spare bedrooms an apartment like this no doubt contained. Instead I put my clothes back on, and smiled graciously, and said "No rest for the wicked, eh?"

"That's right," he said, in an almost perfect impersonation of apologetic affability. "Goodnight, then."

"Goodnight," I said, still smiling, and I gave him a little wave as I stepped through the doorway. "Perhaps I'll see you around."

He looked at me, and behind those warm dark eyes I could see another one of those crystal-clear messages: _Not likely, sweetheart_.


	3. Chapter 3

Nothing changed, of course. I'm ashamed to say that even at the age of twenty-five, I still harboured a belief that I could get what I wanted by merely turning up, being pretty, and waiting. In reality, I went back to my happy but boring life as if nothing had happened at all. I spent the weekend being very delicate with my horrifically hung-over self. I went back to work the following Monday, just as I always did, slightly overdressed and extremely underwhelmed. Terence and I had the same conversation on our break as we always did, exchanging innuendos and being half-heartedly caustic with each other. I went home in the evening and heated up something distressingly bland for tea, then spent the rest of the night flicking through the same copy of _Enchanté_ that I'd been attempting to entertain myself with for weeks. The paper was torn and curling at the corners, and what had initially been a charming colour pictorial of a boy in a beautiful maroon tuxedo was now a dull, faded, muddy-brown mockery of glamour. It summed up everything that was wrong with my life. I threw the magazine down onto the floor and kicked it.

And then I began to plan.

I needed to catch Vic's eye, but the only overlap in our social circles was that particular club, the Bay Tree. I had to go there again, I decided, and this time I had to approach Vic differently. I couldn't simply walk up to him, and risk being intercepted by Ray again. I couldn't wait passively for him to approach me, either. I had to stand out, but without making a scene. I had to show that I respected his position, but that I was more than just another face in his crowd of sycophants. The materials I needed for my campaign, I decided, were: a new outfit, some good notepaper, and a copy of _The Stage_. I had the latter, but I was forced to beg and borrow the first two from Terence, who was happy to trade them for the opportunity to sneer at me.

"That scarlet suit you've got," I said casually, "will you be wearing it on Saturday?"

"Why," he said, with a cold, glassy smile, "are you going fishing for lowlifes again? Red's certainly the right colour for that—at least if you get blood on it, the stain won't show."

"How about a trade? You lend me the scarlet suit," I said, laying my hand on his arm, "and I'll lend you my blue pinstripe, the next time you're out fishing for bank managers."

He scowled and huffed and pouted, but eventually he agreed. We might have despised each other, but at that point, who else were either of us going to turn to?

 

* * *

 

The Bay Tree had apparently once been a very formal dance hall, but after Mr Middleton took over, it became more of a nightclub. The music was modern, and although couples still danced, it was mainly a place for drinking and pickups. It was also the lowest rung on the ladder for Vic and Ray, and the highest one I could hope to reach. I felt very aware of that, as Terence's scarlet suit and I made our way past the bar. Each pair of eyes that watched me seemed to shout a silent message: _you don't belong here, you're kidding yourself, you're simply setting yourself up for a fall_. I almost faltered, but then I caught sight of Vic sitting at one of the tables on the other side of the hall, a glorious vision in mauve and taupe, and the desire in me flared up into single-minded determination. So what if I didn't belong there? I had something I wanted in my sights, and I would fight tooth and nail for it if I had to.

When I waved a waiter across, and asked him to take a note to Vic, he rolled his eyes at me and said "Yes, _sir_ ," with enough venom in the word to make a weaker-minded boy blanch. I simply thanked him, and steeled myself for Vic's response.

The note I sent was clipped and concise:

_The Changeling, at the Grand, next Saturday night—pick me up at seven._

I'd signed my first name underneath, in a big, loose, curling letters meant to convey how nonchalant I was about the whole matter, and then printed my address very clearly and carefully below that. Rather naively, I worried that if my address was illegible, he wouldn't be able to find me.

I watched as the waiter passed him the note. He read it quickly, and his lips quirked, but I couldn't tell whether it was amusement or disdain that moved them. He looked at me, and I held his gaze, fighting the simultaneous impulses to go to him and to run away. I simply smiled, and nodded slightly, letting my eyes say: _Yes, it's me_. Then he slipped the note into his pocket, and I looked away, as if the dancing couples sweeping by us were now much more interesting than the trivial little issue of whether or not he'd take me up on my offer. Somehow I had the impression that he wouldn't want to be rushed, that he would need a little time to decide what he thought of my gambit. So, I sat there and slowly drank the one glass of orange juice I could afford, and it was only when I'd drained the last few drops that I allowed myself to look in Vic's direction again. Of course, he was gone.

 

* * *

 

When the doorbell rang on Sunday evening, I was lying on the sofa, listening to the radio and dozing lightly, after having given the latest issue of _Déshabillé_ a vigorous reading that thoroughly exhausted me. I got to my feet, fastened my robe, and gave my hair a brief, sullen combing. It was probably only a salesman, I thought, but nevertheless I did have standards.

"Yes?" I said, opening the door.

Vic was standing in the hallway, a little way back from the door, with his hands shoved in the pockets of a gorgeous charcoal suit. The light-bulb above him was flickering, making the garnet stud of his tie-pin sparkle. His expression was hard and brittle; I had the impression he'd put in a long day's work, and was very close to his limit.

"I wanted to let you know," he said, in a very grave tone, "that it's a yes."

I was caught off-guard, and didn't quite follow. "A yes?"

"So you didn't worry," he carried on, looking increasingly uncomfortable, and as he continued, his tone became almost one of accusation. "You don't want to get dressed up on a Saturday night without knowing if you're going out or not, do you?"

"No," I said, holding onto the door. I'd suddenly begun to feel quite warm and lightheaded. "No, you're quite right. Thank you."

"Well, then." He nodded, and turned to go.

"Do you want to come in?" I blurted out quickly. "For a cup of tea, I mean? Since you came all this way."

"No," he said, looking back at me, with just the tiniest sliver of a smile. "No, thanks. We can leave all that til Saturday."

I watched him walking down the stairs, letting my eyes drink in as much detail as they could. The broad, solid shoulders. The pristine shirt-collar and cuffs, in thick cream cotton. The dark, cropped hair, with its taper so crisp he might have come straight from the barbers. He was a vision far more titillating than anything _Déshabillé_ could provide. I closed the door, and began to prepare for an early night, keeping the image of Vic warm in my thoughts.


	4. Chapter 4

The doorbell rang at five to seven, but this time I was ready for him. I had the black velvet suit on again, with a fuchsia shirt I'd borrowed from Terence, and a magenta and violet shot satin tie that shimmered when the light caught it. The diamante tie-pin and cuff-links were back in their roles as stars, and now they were joined by three gold rings, each with a successively larger imitation ruby at its centre. That first night, I had been dressed as the cold, crisp dawn. Tonight I was a sky on fire with the reds and pinks and purples of a hot summer evening.

"You're a bit early," I said, as I stood in the doorway, letting Vic look me over.

"No point waiting," he said gruffly, but his eyes were as greedy and appreciative as his tone was brusque. "Are you ready to go?"

I didn't answer immediately. I took a moment to look him over in return; I wanted to make it clear that the feeling was quite mutual. And it was, my dears, it most certainly was. His suit was black, and unusually for him it was a three-piece, with the most exquisitely subtle black pinstripe running almost imperceptibly through it. His shirt was pale lilac, and his tie was steel-grey, with a small pin that might have been amethyst or rose quartz. The hardness of those cold greys and blacks, the warmth of those pinks and purples, the rich dark perfection of his skin, and the glimmer of ruthlessness in his eyes—all conspired to render me speechless.

"Yes, I'm ready," I said finally, in as carefree a tone as I could muster.

"Come on, then," he said, putting a hand on the small of my back, in a gentle way that made me thirst all the more for the force I knew he was capable of.

Now, if I were a car person, I could regale you with scintillating details about the design of Vic's car. I am not, as you will have guessed, a car person. All I can tell you is that it was dark teal with silver trimmings, and the seats were upholstered in brown leather that felt pleasingly soft under my fingertips. The driver has always mattered much more to me than the vehicle, even in less exciting circumstances. That night, I hardly noticed the car at all. My mind was full of strong rough hands, thick glossy silk, and knots a great deal harder to untie than a half-windsor. I enjoyed the drive very much, but I suspect my conversation wasn't particularly stimulating.

What I liked even more than the drive, however, was the walk through the theatre foyer. All the locals knew who Vic was, of course, but even the tourists in the crowd turned to look at us. In my experience, one well-dressed man may draw attention, but two well-dressed men can stop traffic. As we went up the main staircase, all eyes were on us. It was intoxicating. I saw a few figures in our audience nudging each other and whispering, and I imagined their gossip, writing their lines as salaciously as I could: _Look, that's Vic Blake,_ they might whisper, _with one of his tarts._ Another might hiss, _No, don't look at him, what if he sees you staring?_ Then they would collectively shudder and turn away, I decided. Of course, we were long gone by the time these imaginings ceased to thrill me, and when Vic glanced at me I must have had quite a distracted expression on my face.

"Don't let it bother you," he said, nodding his head towards the door. "People staring, I mean. Mr Middleton says that when one of us passes by, it's the most exciting thing most of them have seen all day. We can't begrudge them their entertainment, he says."

"No, I suppose not," I laughed, and settled down in my seat. I didn't know it then, but over the next few years I would be hearing a great deal about Mr Middleton's opinions on various matters.

The play itself delighted me. A few lines seemed to speak directly to me, to my past and my most painful memories. _I love now with the eyes of judgement, and see the way to merit, clearly see it_. I'd said the same thing to myself a dozen times, caught up in one flimsy infatuation or another, though fortunately my follies hadn't ended quite so violently. At one line— _There's horror in my service, blood and danger_ —I heard Vic chuckle quietly, and when I glanced at him I could make out the shadows of a wry smile. I wondered what he thought of the murder plot, and I risked another glance at him during the ring-stealing scene, hiding my curiosity behind a grimace of squeamishness. He was watching intently as the villain sawed away at the dead man's finger, with as serious an expression as I'd ever seen on his face. I wondered briefly whether he'd ever done something similar himself, and then I put the thought away, where it could neither scare nor excite me.

"Well, I enjoyed that very much," I said afterwards, as we walked back out through the foyer. "What did you think?"

"That guy," Vic said gravely, "was the best De Flores I've seen for years."

I must confess that my eyes widened. "You've seen this play before?"

"Yeah, loads of times." He gave a brief, rough laugh. "You could call it a family favourite."

"Oh, I had no idea," I said, sheepishly. I could feel my cheeks colouring as I talked. "I only picked it because I thought the costumes looked nice."

"They were very well-done," he said, nodding. "Must be a nightmare getting the fake blood out of them, though."

"Oh no," I said, forgetting my embarrassment, "there are some quite good formulations these days that wash straight out, and if anything does stain, a bit of shaving cream usually does the trick."

He looked at me, smiling ever so slightly. "How d'you know all this?"

"Oh, I helped out with the costumes once, when the amateur dramatics club put on _Titus Andronicus_." Helping out meant washing and ironing, of course, but I wasn't in the habit of mentioning that little detail.

" _Titus_ , eh?" Vic laughed. "That's a baptism of fire."

"Listen," I said suddenly, slipping my arm through his. "That cup of tea, we could have it now, if you like."

He stopped, and put his hands on my shoulders. "Come back to my place."

His bluntness thrilled me. No innuendo, no euphemisms. It was almost an order.

"Alright," I said lightly, as if this wasn't the result I'd been yearning for all evening. "Why not?"

I was very quiet during the drive back to Vic's apartment, but it was the full, warm silence of contentment. Even in the lift, I barely said a word. I was happy just to look at him, and to feel his arm around my waist. It was only when were finally alone in his living room that my tongue stirred to life again.

"This is a very nice place," I said, and stopped just short of adding: _much nicer than your brother's_. It was true, though. Ray's apartment was impressive, of course, but it had a rather cold air about it, as if it were a show house or a very lavish hotel room. Vic's place had much more character, much more of _him_ in it. There were physique magazines piled up on top of one of the cabinets; there was a framed photo on the mantelpiece, showing the twins and a much older man I assumed was Mr Middleton, standing by the railings on the pier; there was a tie draped across the back of a chair, just as there often was in my flat, when I'd changed my mind and abandoned one for another at the very last minute. It was as expensively and beautifully furnished as Ray's apartment, but _this_ was the one I could imagine myself feeling at home in.

"Come here," Vic ordered, taking hold of my shoulders again. His hands were firmer now, and as he pulled me into a kiss, I felt those words welling up in my throat that always went unsaid—but now they threatened to burst free. Now they wouldn't be denied. He grabbed a handful of my hair as he kissed me, and pulled it roughly, but not roughly enough, and somehow the gates that kept me silent swung open at last.

"Harder," I murmured against his cheek, "much harder, make it hurt…"

"I should've known you'd want it like that," he said, with a little laugh, and this time he yanked my head back so hard my eyes began to water. To have been rewarded so swiftly and perfectly for the little risk I'd taken was exhilarating, and now I felt as if I could say _every_ line that occurred to me, everything I'd ever kept back behind a bitten lip.

"Mm," I said softly, "and you know how to treat a boy like me, don't you?"

"I ought to," he said, "I've had fifteen years' practice at it."

I slid my hand down between us, and stroked him lightly. I could feel his cock hardening and thickening underneath my palm, and that alone was enough to make me groan a little in impatience.

"You like that, do you?" he said, closing his fingers around my wrist. "Get on your knees and show me how much."

His other hand moved up to my shoulder, and he gave me a gentle push, but I stayed where I was and smiled up at him. " _Make_ me…"

Both hands came up to my shoulders now, and the push he gave me was anything but gentle. My knees ached as they hit the floor. My heart raced. My whole body seemed to sing with excitement. I could barely keep still as he held my hair in one hand, and unbuttoned his fly with the other. I watched his fingers stroking over the shaft of his cock, first to bare it, then to hold it to my lips, and I opened my mouth eagerly to take it. This is the odd contradiction at the heart of my tastes—I need to feel that, if he chose to, the man fucking me could physically force me to do what he wanted, but that he _does not need to_. My eagerness is as important as his roughness. So I clutched at Vic's legs as he dragged my head forward, but it was to pull him closer, not to fight him off. The taste of his skin, warm and slightly bitter, made me ravenous. I took as much as I could, and each inch of his cock that sank into my throat had a matching shove of his cupped hand behind it. As much as I could take, _that_ was precisely what he gave me.

"You've been wanting this all night, haven't you?" he said, gripping the back of my neck tightly. His other hand tangled in my hair, twisting it cruelly in his fist.

I moaned a _Yes_ against his skin, and circled both my hands around the shaft of his cock, so that every inch of him had my lips, my tongue, my fingers around it. I'd planned to take my time, to pleasure Vic so completely that he would be thoroughly captivated, but all of that was forgotten in the heat of the moment. I was a creature of pure desire now, with nothing in my head but the taste of him, the scent of his skin, the weight of his cock against my tongue, the unyielding pressure of it plunging into my throat. I was nothing but a toy to be fucked, and in my mind I heard his voice telling me this, calling me those beautiful names— _whore, slut, tart, bitch_ —over and over as I sucked his cock. When he pulled back, I was blushing as hotly as if he'd really said the words.

"In here," he ordered, pulling me up to my feet. As he manhandled me into the bedroom, I felt flimsy, insubstantial, almost helpless, like a paper doll being buffeted this way and that by the wind. He shoved me up against the wall, so that the impact jolted through my bones, and now I wasn't a paper doll, but instead a marionette, solid yet light, and still only a thing to be toyed with. We kissed, and he pulled off my jacket, my tie, my shirt, throwing each aside carelessly as if he were tearing the tissue paper off a well-wrapped gift, and I kicked off my shoes and trousers, as eager as he was for my own nakedness. Then with the soft wool of his suit against my bare skin, I felt even more real, even more solid. Not a marionette, now, but a hot, throbbing, physical thing, an animal, a piece of meat to be grabbed and squeezed and manipulated. I clung to his neck, and when he pushed me away, I gave a groan of disappointment that was almost bestial, like the growl of a cat being shoved away from its meal.

He threw me down onto the bed, and said "Stay there," in a voice like iron. I couldn't have moved if I'd wanted to. The sight of him transfixed me, and I watched with greedy eyes as he slipped his off jacket and threw it aside. The pale lilac of his shirt looked deathly-white now. He tugged his tie undone, and as he discarded it, my hand slipped down instinctively, and I toyed with myself as I watched. My cock felt so hot and so hard, and my skin so starved for contact that I struggled to keep my pace slow. Vic seemed just as impatient. He unbuttoned his waistcoat and shirt hurriedly, then shrugged them off and let them fall to the floor. My hand sped up a little; I had imagined his body many times, and the muscle and hair and skin of it were exactly as I'd dreamed them, but what I hadn't imagined were his scars. There were only a handful, but they electrified me. They were proof that he had lived so much more than I had, that he'd taken risks so much greater, acted so much more decisively than I ever could. The sight of them set me on fire.

"Turn over," he ordered, and as I turned, he grabbed my hips and hauled me up onto my hands and knees. It was then that I noticed the mirrored doors opposite us. They stretched from floor to ceiling, with only two small pearl handles to mar their reflection. I could see everything. My face, with pale skin flushing pink at the cheeks. My hair, shining and dishevelled. My body, naked and surrounded by a sea of green silk. And Vic, kneeling behind me, leaning over me, so broad and tall and strong, with a face like a fierce bronze statue come to life. He glanced down, and as I felt his fingertips sliding wetly between my buttocks, I spread my legs and pushed back against him.

"Now," I said impatiently, "fuck me now, I can't wait any longer."

"You'll wait as long as I tell you," he said sharply, but he was pushing forward and sliding his cock into me even as he spoke. I wriggled against him, wincing when I tried to move too quickly, murmuring little encouragements as it became easier to take, and when my body finally accepted him, when he'd finally impaled me, I caught his eye in the mirror and begged unashamedly for more.

"Please," I moaned, "fuck me, don't stop, make me take it…"

He gave a short, rough laugh, and grabbed a handful of my hair. Again he yanked it back so hard my eyes watered, but now the sting of his hand was coupled with the pleasure of his cock filling me, and the slam of his hips against my ass. I flinched, and winced, and yelped, and moaned, and gave myself up thoroughly to the sensation of it—the sensation, and the _sight_. His hand, with strands of platinum hair wound around it. His mouth, set in a frown of exertion. His eyes, dark and hard and frightening. His shoulders, solid and thick, with their one silver-brown scar curving up towards his neck. The sight of Vic could have fuelled my fantasies for weeks, but the sight of the two of us together, the sight of him holding me down and fucking me so ruthlessly that a less voracious boy would have howled in pain—I felt as if that image alone might overwhelm me.

"I knew you'd love the mirror," he said, grabbing hold of my wrist. He twisted my arm up behind my back, and I yelped; he wrenched it higher, and the yelp melted into a gasp. When I slipped my free hand down to stroke myself again. he gave a deep, warm laugh, and squeezed my wrist so tightly I thought it might break. "And you love the rough stuff even more, don't you?"

"So much," I groaned, tightening my fist around my cock, "so much I feel like it'll drive me mad…"

"That, I'd like to see." He let go of my wrist, and hooked his arm around my neck, pulling me upright suddenly. His forearm pressed hard against my throat, so that I could barely breathe. His hand twisted viciously in my hair. His cock twitched and throbbed inside me. I was only flesh, only nerve endings, only a body for him to use, and I could see everything, painted vividly and starkly in the mirror's reflection. I could see my legs, spread wide and shaking. My chest, bony and smooth, rising and falling quickly as I struggled to breathe. My hand moving desperately over my cock, the obscene reddish-pink hardness of it making my fingers seem all the thinner, all the paler in comparison.

"Don't hold back," Vic said, close to my ear. "I want to watch you come."

_Yes,_ I wanted to say, _yes, anything you want, you can have it all_ , but the most I could muster was a long, desperate moan. My hand worked hurriedly over my cock, trembling as I began to succumb. My thighs and stomach tensed as they always do when I'm about to lose control. I looked at Vic's face in the reflection, at the sheer raw desire in his eyes, and everything in me rushed up to the surface suddenly, swelling and bursting into chaos. I came so hard that when I finally stopped shuddering, my chest hurt and my limbs ached, as if I'd undertaken some great athletic feat.

"Please," I began to say, as he shoved me back down onto the bed. I wanted to beg for his pleasure as much as my own, but he was ahead of me. He came quickly and violently, as if he'd been holding back, waiting until I'd finished. I watched his face, his eyes, his lips, drinking in the sight greedily, as if by watching carefully enough I could somehow capture it and take it home with me. Then I closed my eyes, and rested my head against the cool silk of the bedclothes, waiting silently as he pulled away.

I felt the bed move as he got off it, and I knew I should get up too, but something kept my eyes closed and my body still.

"Lie down for a bit," he said, touching my shoulder lightly. "Or you can have a shower, if you like."

"Oh, er, yes," I stammered, turning over onto my back. "Yes, please, that'd be lovely."

"And once you're ready to go, I'll drive you home." He carried on talking as he went through into the bathroom, raising his voice a little over the sound of the water. "I'm not having you going back in a taxi at this time of night."

I got to my feet, and shakily followed him into the bathroom. "You're sure it's not too much trouble?"

"No trouble at all," he said gruffly, as if he didn't want to hear another word about it. I was tired enough to oblige him quite happily on that count.

I showered slowly and lazily, and by the time I came out of the bathroom, Vic was fully-dressed again, sitting on the armchair next to the bed, flicking through a magazine.

"I want to see you again," he said, in that wonderful way he has of making a statement carry more power than a dozen requests.

"Oh, do you?" I asked, with a soft little giggle. "Well, I suppose I could fit you in."


	5. Chapter 5

My life took on a rather lopsided character, from then on. I spent my weekdays in the office, where each hour was crushingly slow and packed to the brim with tedious annoyances. My evenings were split between Vic and solitude. Two or three nights a week, he would take me out somewhere; the remaining evenings I spent in my flat, either recovering from the previous rendezvous or planning the next. I did occasionally try to go out with Terence, to one of our usual haunts, but all the urgency had gone out of the matter. I felt as if I were an adult tagging along to a child's party. And, of course, relations had become strained between us since Terence heard that I was seeing Vic.

"So," he said to me one day, in the break-room, "I hear you've hit the big-time."

I'd had a particularly tiresome morning, and I was in a foul mood, so I played dumb. "Have I?" I said, shrugging.

"I'm _very_ happy for you, of course," he carried on, "but don't you think it's a bit, well, distasteful?"

When I play dumb, I play it to the hilt, so I furrowed my brow and said "What, going out on dates?"

"With a _criminal_." Terence drew the word out, as if it were a sour bonbon he was particularly enjoying being disgusted by.

"Oh, that," I laughed. "Lots of things are against the law, darling."

"But doesn't it bother you? Being picked up in that flashy car, wearing that jewellery, eating those expensive dinners, and knowing where the money to pay for all of it came from… It'd turn my stomach, dear."

"I simply don't think about it," I said, which wasn't true in the slightest. "And I make a point of not judging what anyone does for money." Which certainly was true, and which to me was the inevitable consequence of never having very much of the stuff myself.

The odd thing was, though, that in Vic's case it _wasn't_ for money. I only came to realise this after we'd been seeing each other for a while, though in hindsight I suppose it should have been obvious. We'd been together for about six or seven weeks when I first broached the topic in a serious way.

"Vic," I said one evening, as we were walking along the promenade, "the things you do for Mr Middleton…"

He stopped, and looked at me. "What, you mean sex?"

"Oh, no," I laughed. "I mean work."

"Oh." He started walking again, and took hold of my hand. "What about it?"

"Do you ever regret any of it?"

He looked away, out towards the sea, and I could feel an unpleasant memory slipping through the space between us. "I regret when it goes wrong."

"But not when it goes right?"

"No," he said, looking me in the eye. "What Mr Middleton needs doing, me and Ray get it done. Simple as that."

And it really _was_ that simple. At first the intensity of his devotion scared me, but as time went on I came to envy it. Imagine that certainty of purpose. Imagine knowing that, in any situation, there is one absolute priority to which everything else is, and always will be, secondary. Imagine knowing without a doubt that if the situation required it, you would sacrifice your life for that one thing—and anyone else's, for that matter. It was beyond me, and I was fascinated.

There is a difference, though, between knowing in an abstract sense that the man you're seeing is involved in unsavoury business, and actually having the concrete evidence of it right in front of you, where it can't be ignored.

 

* * *

 

"Sorry I'm late," he said, when I opened the door. He was supposed to have picked me up at eight, and although it was a quarter past, I wasn't really worried. He'd been late a few times before, having been delayed by urgent last-minute tasks for Mr Middleton, and that night I'd assumed it was more of the same. I'd imagined Vic caught up in an interminable telephone call to one of their contacts, tapping his fingers impatiently as he waited for his chance to get away, just as I did whenever some talkative colleague rang me at ten to five on a Friday afternoon.

Then I saw the dark stain on his forearm.

"What's that?" I said, suddenly panicking. "Is that _your_ blood? What happened?"

"Let me come in first, Stefan," he said, with a taut laugh.

I stood aside, and watched as he calmly went through into the bathroom. He didn't even wince as he took his jacket off and rolled up his sleeve. He just turned on the tap, and held his arm under the water. I couldn't look at the wound, so I watched the water turning pink and then red as it circled the plughole.

"Have you got any bandages?" he called out, looking over his shoulder. "Or failing that, a thick handkerchief would probably do it."

It took me a few seconds to react to what he was saying. It hadn't occurred to me that Vic would want me to actually _do_ anything.

"Stefan?" he said, a little louder this time. "Are you listening?"

"Yes, yes, hang on," I said, running into the bedroom and yanking a drawer open. "I'm getting a handkerchief, bear with me."

As I ran back through the living room, my head was full of awful thoughts, exploding like fireworks. Did someone attack Vic, or did he get into a fight? What about the other person, had Vic seriously injured them? Were they dead? Would the police arrive at any moment to take Vic away?

"What happened?" I asked again, as I handed him the handkerchief.

"Not much, really." He flashed me a quick smile, and wrapped the fabric around his arm. "Some squirt took a pop at me, and then he pulled a knife when things didn't go his way."

"Oh." I watched him rolling his sleeve down, and buttoning it over the makeshift bandage. I could imagine the fight very clearly. Blows flying, jackets clutched in bloody fists, the glint of a blade, and howls of pain when Vic got the upper hand. What I didn't know, though, was how an interlude like that would end. "Is he..? Did you..?"

"He won't be using that arm again for a while."

"Oh…" I said again, stupidly. I was relieved that no-one had died, and now that the immediate danger seemed to be over, my panic had drained away, and all I was left with was a racing pulse and burning cheeks.

"Ah, damn it," Vic muttered, as he picked up his jacket and looked at the stain. "This was brand new. And I'll have to go home and change, too, before we go out. Sorry, Stefan."

"It's alright…" I said, following him back into the living room. "I'd rather stay in now, anyway."

"No, don't let it spoil your evening," he said, not quite catching on. "You can't let this kind of thing get to you."

"Oh, I'm not," I said, with a little laugh. "At least, not in a bad way."

He looked at me, and I smiled at him, and when he caught my meaning he smiled too, and shook his head. "You," he said, laughing, "are what Mr Middleton would call incorrigible."

"Am I?" I slid both hands up over his shirtfront, over the muscle of his chest, over the hard lines of his shoulders, and laced my fingers together behind his neck. "What else am I..?"

"A shameless little whore," he said, tossing the jacket aside. He knew exactly what to say to me, exactly what I needed; he'd made me tell him once precisely which words I longed for, and I'd listed them for him, blushing hotter and hotter with each admission. The embarrassment was a very wise investment. Now I had the luxury of a lover who could send me into raptures with only a handful of words.

"Not just _any_ whore," I said, smiling up at him.

" _My_ shameless little whore." He slid his good arm around my waist and pulled me closer to him, crushing my body against his. I knew he could feel how aroused I was already, and that he loved the sensation of it—as he loved any and all evidence of how attractive I found him—so I let my hips jerk forward and pressed my cock against his thigh a little harder, rubbing and grinding against him as if I couldn't control myself. "Look at you," he said, low and close to my ear, "you're like an animal in heat, aren't you?"

"Mm, and you know what I need, don't you?"

His hand moved up to my hair, and he grabbed a handful of it, twisting it around his fist like a leash. "I know exactly what a slut like you needs," he said, dragging me by the hair over to the armchair. When he brought his other hand up to my throat and squeezed, I ran my fingers along his arm the way I always did, tracing the tense curve of its muscle, down past the jut of his elbow—and then I felt the damp warmth of the bloodstain under my fingertips.

"Vic, be careful of your arm!" I said suddenly, moving my hand away. "Shouldn't you be taking it easy?"

"I've had worse than this and kept going." His tone was slightly scornful, but he let go of me anyway, and sat down in the armchair. "But maybe I feel like seeing you do all the work for once."

"Oh, I'm very industrious," I said, with a little giggle. I sank to my knees in front of him, and ran my hands up over his thighs, over his hips, up to the buckle of his belt. "You won't have a lift a finger."

"We'll see about that," he said, but he kept his hands still, resting on the arms of the chair, as I unfastened his fly and bared his cock. My fingers curled around his shaft, and I stroked my hand along the length of it slowly, teasing myself a little with my own slowness. I wanted to taste his skin, but I kept him just out of reach. My mouth was almost touching the tip of his cock, close enough for him to feel the heat of each shallow little breath, and when I licked slowly at my lips, he gave a quiet groan of frustration that was almost a growl.

"Stefan," he said, moving his good hand to rest on my head. His fingers grasped my hair and began to tighten, twisting it harder and harder, like the gradual crushing force of a vice being slowly closed around me. The pain drove a gasp from me, and I dipped my head to take the first few inches of his cock into my mouth. I'd intended to keep up my approach of teasing slowness, but the first taste of him obliterated my self-control, and in seconds I was pushing myself down further and further, moving in gentle stops and starts, advancing and retreating in a steady, slow, relentless rhythm. I couldn’t hold back; it was all I could do not to beg. And Vic, for his part, was no more inclined towards the hands-off approach than I was to teasing and denial.

"You filthy little tart," he said, shoving my head down harder. "I've barely been here five minutes and you're already on your knees. Couldn't wait to get my cock in your mouth, could you?"

I made a helpless sound of pleasure around him, and buried my face in his lap. My throat worked desperately around his cock, and I swallowed as much as I could, but there always seemed to be just a little further I could go, just a little more I could take, always just slightly out of reach.

"Look at you, you dirty little bitch," he said, with the most perfectly rough, mocking laugh. "You're in heaven down there, aren't you?"

I knew where this was leading, and the thought made me moan against him.

"Show me, then," he ordered, yanking hard on my hair. "Show me how much you love it."

I brought both hands down to my lap and began unfastening my trousers with shaky, clumsy fingers. Vic kept his hand tight in my hair, hauling my mouth up and down along the length of his shaft, as I fumbled with the buttons. Finally I curled one hand around my own cock, and the sudden wet heat of my palm drove another groan out of me.

"Can't get enough, can you?" he said, forcing my head down roughly. I kept the pace of my hand brisk, matching it to the brutal rhythm he set as he fucked my mouth. My fingers were tight and as ruthless as the merciless onslaught of his cock in my throat, his lap against my face, his hand in my hair. Perhaps I should have drawn the process out, but I had no patience. I stroked myself as single-mindedly as if I were on my own, selfishly and precisely chasing every ounce of pleasure down to the last drop, and all the while I was moaning and gasping around him as if I were reeling out of control.

"That's right, show me what a filthy little whore you are," he said, so harshly and so irresistibly that he might as well have taken me in hand himself. He held my head down as I began to come, forcing his cock painfully deep into my throat, pushing me to the edge of choking, and I made helpless frantic noises around him, moaning, yelping, almost sobbing, as each shudder of pleasure wracked me. My hands were as sore and wet and aching as my throat, by the time the last convulsion faded.

As always, when the curtain had fallen on my solo, Vic became quieter and almost business-like. His hand stayed on my head, and his fingers still gripped my hair, but now the only sounds were the slick, wet noise of his cock sliding into my mouth, and the few quiet groans he gave as he neared the edge. I was much less quiet. As spent as I was, I couldn't help wincing and yelping softly when he yanked my hair and hauled me up as he pulled out. I couldn't help moaning a little as I watched his fist curling around his cock. I couldn't help murmuring "Please," as his mouth tensed with pleasure, and gasping as I received my reward. When he'd finished, my face was covered, my forehead spattered and my cheeks doused with his come, and my skin loved the heat and the sticky touch of it as much as it loved the stroke of his hand or the brush of his lips. My head was full of the scent of him, and I felt drunk, absolutely drunk, and thoroughly happy.

Afterwards, I sat down on the floor and took out my handkerchief to wipe my face clean, feeling as suddenly exhausted as if this were the final act of a date that had lasted all evening. Vic's good hand rested on my head, and when I was finally dry, I closed my eyes and laid my cheek against his leg.

"This sort of thing," he said quietly, "is probably going to happen a lot over the next few months."

"Mm, I hope so," I murmured sleepily, half-muffled against the cloth of his trousers.

"No, I mean my arm, Stefan," he carried on, with a soft little chuckle. "What with how we're expanding the business, me and Ray are going to be more of a target than ever."

"Well," I said, stifling a little yawn, "I can't say I'm thrilled about the idea, but that's just the nature of your work, isn't it?"

His hand kept moving, stroking my hair slowly, but I could feel the tension in his touch. "It's not going to be a problem? Because if it is, you need to tell me now, Stefan, before this goes any further."

"Don't be silly," I said, opening my eyes and propping my chin up on my hands. "What kind of fool gets involved with a man like you and then complains about danger? I hope you don't think I'm that much of an airhead."

"No," he said, moving his hand down to my cheek. "No, I don't."

"I do want you to be careful, though." I couldn't hold his gaze; I looked down suddenly, studying the pattern of his tie. "After all, if something happens to you, who's going to take me to the theatre? Those tickets don't grow on trees, you know."


	6. Chapter 6

"Look," I said, holding up the wide red and white tin. "I bought myself a housewarming present."

"A first aid kit?" Vic smiled as warmly as if it were a box of gourmet chocolates in my hands.

"So I'm prepared for any eventuality." I took off the lid and showed him the contents. "Now, no matter how injured you are when you arrive at my door, I'll be able to look after you."

"Well, you've got a decent bedside manner, I can vouch for that." He brought his hand up to my cheek and cupped it, stroking his thumb along the line of my cheekbone. "And speaking of presents, I've got something for you."

"Mm, of course you have," I laughed softly, and put the first aid kit down. "Your strategy is absolutely transparent to me, Vic—first you arrange for this lovely new flat to be mine for a pittance, _then_ you ply me with jewellery and clothes, and _finally_ …" I trailed off, leaning into his embrace, and slid my arms around his neck.

He stroked his hands down along the length of my back, as if he were petting a cat. "Finally?"

"Finally, once you've worn down my resistance with your endless generosity, you'll seize me and have your wicked way with me, and then my corruption will be complete."

"Corruption, eh?" he laughed. "I must have blinked and missed the few seconds where you were innocent."

"Oh no, I was a very good boy before I met you, you know…"

"Well, it's a good job you aren't any more, because I don't think a good boy would have any use for what I've brought you." He reached into his coat pocket, and brought out a little powder-blue box.

"Oh!" I said, quickly classifying the likely contents. Too big to be jewellery, certainly; too small to be clothes; the wrong shape for anything edible. Finally I took off the lid and confirmed my guess. "Oh, Vic, thank you, how did you know I wanted some new perfume?"

He laughed, kissed my forehead. "Because you complain every time I see you that you're bored of the stuff you've got, that's how."

I took the stopper out of the little crystal bottle, and held it to my nose. The scent was sweet and light, with a little kick of something smoky underneath it. I couldn't have imagined a more suitable fragrance. It was as if he'd somehow managed to distil and bottle my self-image. "Oh, it's wonderful," I said, reaching up to kiss him. "Thank you."

"As it happens," he said, taking the bottle out of my hands and setting it aside, "I did have an ulterior motive for bringing you this."

He sat down on the sofa, and patted the purple velvet of the seat beside him. He looked so suddenly serious that I couldn't keep the concern out of my voice. "Oh," I said, nestling beside him, and slipping my hand into his. "Nothing bad, I hope?"

"Well, it's partly a way of saying sorry in advance."

"Sorry? For what?"

"I'm not going to be around much over the next few weeks, what with everything we've got going on."

"Oh…" I looked away, fixing my eyes on the frame of the mirror that hung over the mantelpiece.

"But I've had an idea of how to get around that," he said, stroking his thumb over the top of my hand. "So the present's partly a bribe, to convince you to say yes."

"A bribe?" I turned to look at him, and the embarrassment on his face was so charming that I almost laughed. "Go on…"

"Well, I was thinking, since I'll be stuck at the hotel all weekend, so it's going to be almost a fortnight before I can see you again."

I hadn't realised it would be that long, and I was mortified. "Oh," I said, with a little frown, "that does seem like a long time."

"So I was thinking, you could come and stay at the hotel too. Might get a bit boring for you, hanging around on your own," he said, squeezing my hand, "but at least we'd get to see each other."

I thought about the way my weekends usually unfolded when Vic was busy: a Saturday morning spent sleeping, an afternoon spent window-shopping, an evening at the cinema, and then a Sunday full of housework. "Yes," I said, bluntly enough to surprise myself. "Yes, definitely, I'd love to."

 

* * *

 

"Everyone's at panic stations," Vic said, opening the door, "because we've never had this Mr Turner over on our turf before."

"Oh, is he very important?" I followed him inside, and waved hello to a couple of the bellboys I recognised.

"Well, yeah, but all this is a bit over the top, if you ask me." Vic glanced at me, and gave me a quick conspiratorial smile. "I reckon even Mr Middleton's a bit nervous, you know, deep down."

I grinned. "Is he really?"

"He says you can tell a lot about a man by the hospitality he gives you," Vic carried on, "and when we went over there last year, they went all out. It's important to Mr Middleton that we don't come out of this looking shabby."

"Oh, I see." I nodded, and followed him up the stairs. When we got halfway up, I could hear the muffled murmur of a raised voice, and by the time we reached the landing, I could make out every word.

"If you think you're going out there looking like that, you little beast, you can think again!" the voice cried. "Get back into that dressing-room, and don't you _dare_ show your face until you've made yourself presentable!"

A door opened, and a red-eyed, red-cheeked boy hurried out, rushing by us as if he were fleeing a burning building. As he passed by, I glanced at his hair and clothes, and I had to admit that they really were quite dishevelled.

"That's Patrick," Vic said, quite unperturbed. "He does the entertainment."

"That boy..?" I said, looking behind us.

"No, in there," Vic pointed at the open doorway.

And with perfect timing, Patrick appeared at the door. I eyed him warily, carefully tallying his assets and comparing them to mine. Reddish-orange hair, just a touch longer than my own, but with a sleek asymmetrical tilt to it. Skin pale and powdered, brows arched and darkened, cheeks gaunt and very slightly rouged. A black shirt, open at the collar, with tiny coral-pink flowers embroidered at the waist and cuffs, as if they were growing up towards the light of his face. Black trousers, cut very close, tapering down to suede ankle-boots. I was speechless. It was as if one of the frightening beauties from an _Enchanté_ spread had come to life and was now staring at me like an owl watching a mouse.

"I don't think we've been introduced," he said, in a voice like silk.

"Patrick, Stefan," Vic said, waving his hand between the two of us, "Stefan, Patrick. Now you’ve been introduced."

"Delighted," Patrick said, holding his hand out. I took it, and it was exactly as cold as I'd expected.

"Hello," I said, rather limply.

Vic put a hand on each of our shoulders. "Look after him for a minute, Patrick. I've got to go and talk to Ray." And with that he walked off, leaving me to fend for myself.

"So," I said, as calmly as I could manage, "Vic tells me you look after the entertainment?"

"Yes, and we're always looking for new boys," Patrick said, with a beautiful sharp smile. His eyes reminded me of a cat's, now, not an owl's. They were hazel, almost bronze, and coldly playful. He laid a hand lightly on my arm, just above the elbow, and said very casually, "Perhaps you're interested in auditioning?"

And before I knew what I was saying, I had stammered out a panicked answer that was absolutely true, and yet an utter surprise to me. "Oh," I said, shakily, "well, you'd have to talk to Vic about that."

He looked at me, and laughed very softly. "Yes, I suppose I would."

I must have seemed quite terrified as I looked up into his eyes, but it wasn't Patrick I was afraid of. My own feelings had become opaque to me, and that was more frightening than any number of beautiful predators.

"Ah, speak of the devil," Patrick said, turning me around by the shoulders as though I were a small child. Vic was walking down the corridor towards us, and as he approached, Patrick let go of me and gave me a gentle push forward. "Here you are, Vic. I've kept your little friend safe and sound, just as you asked, and I didn't even recruit him."

"Good job you didn't, too," Vic laughed roughly, slipping his arm around my waist. "I know what a slave-driver you are, Patrick, and I don't want this one working to death."

He led me away, and I let him steer me, as grateful for the direction as for the arm to lean on. I felt very faint. My cheeks were hot, and I reassured myself that I was merely ill, simply coming down with something, and not at all upset or confused.

 

* * *

 

The suite was absolutely enormous, and beautifully decorated. The lounge was easily twice the size of even my spacious new living room at home, and at the centre of the room there was a very plush burgundy leather sofa, which was big enough that I could have slept on it quite comfortably. The bed itself made that sofa seem almost ascetic. I spread myself out on it and lounged like a cat in the sun, while Vic attempted to give me the tour of the rest of the suite.

"The bathroom's through here," he said, from the doorway.

"Mm," I said, stretching my arms out and rubbing my palms along the velvet panel of the bedclothes beneath me.

"And the drinks cabinet is down there, but don't overdo it," he carried on, "I want you awake and sober when I come up later."

"Sober, I can promise," I murmured, rolling over onto my stomach. "Awake might be more of a challenge."

Vic smiled, and shook his head. "And I thought you'd be in danger of getting bored…"

"I'm half-kitten, you know," I laughed, looking over my shoulder at him. "Give me somewhere soft and warm to doze, and I'm in heaven."

The bed shifted as he sat down on the edge of it, and before I could say another word, his hands descended on me, one gripping my throat and one cupping the curve of my ass. "That's funny," he said, squeezing harder, "because my idea of heaven is something warm and soft, too."

"Mm, more like hot and tight," I giggled and arched my back, pushing my throat a little harder into his grip. "I know what you're after, trying to dazzle me with all of this luxury…"

"Oh yeah? And is this tactic going to work, d'you reckon?"

"Maybe…" I shrugged, and gave him a coquettish smile. "That depends just how much you spoil me this weekend…"

"Well," he began to say, but a knock on the door interrupted him.

"Vic," Ray's voice called, "come on, they'll be here in half an hour."

"Alright, keep your hair on." Vic muttered, and let go of me.

"Have fun," I said, stretching out on my back again. "I'll try not to get too terribly bored."

I suppose some boys might have found the evening quite a lonely one. For me, though, the suite was such a novelty that I felt I could have spent a month alone there before I tired of it. After I locked the door behind Vic, I made straight for the bathroom, and took the most preposterously long and lazy bath I'd ever had. I dozed as much as I bathed, and I didn't get out until the scented bubbles had all but died away. Then I wrapped myself up in a plush dressing gown, turned the radio on far louder than I would have risked at home, and sprawled out on the sofa to read. I had the kind of luxury I'd always dreamed of. Everything I wanted was only a telephone call away—except for Vic, of course. And I did miss him, really, but the little pangs of loneliness I felt were surrounded by the warmth of gratitude. When I went to sleep, it was with a smile on my lips, and his image in my mind.

 

* * *

 

The sound of the door opening woke me. I'd left the lights on in the lounge, and as Vic moved through the room I could see the shadows shifting slightly. He was being very quiet, far quieter than you'd expect a man of his size and build would be capable of, and it occurred to me that Vic might well have crept through dozens of rooms like this in his time. I wondered how it would feel to wake suddenly and find Vic looming over you, with something frightening in his hands—a gun, perhaps, or a blackjack, or that length of piano wire I'd seen in his apartment once. I wondered if it would be better not to wake up at all, if you were unlucky enough to receive a visit like that.

"Stefan, you awake?" he said, slipping silently through the half-open door.

"Of course," I murmured, and turned on the bedside lamp. "Hurry up and come here, I've been awfully lonely."

"Have you?" He drew the bedclothes back, and slid one arm under my waist as he leaned over me. "You didn't drink yourself to sleep, did you?"

"Oh no," I laughed, as he pulled me up into an embrace. "I indulged in all my other vices, though."

He kissed me, and as I wrapped my arms around his neck, I caught the scent of something sweetly floral on his jacket, mixed in with the usual smell of smoke and alcohol. "You're covered in perfume," I murmured, "whatever _have_ you been up to?"

"Patrick's boys douse themselves in the stuff," he said, with a brusque laugh. "It must cost us a fortune, with the amount they go through."

"Mm, go on," I said, picturing Vic with a couple of the prettier boys I'd seen downstairs. "I want to hear all about it…"

"Nothing to tell," he said, shrugging. "I don't get involved at these things."

"Oh, don't you?" I replied, rather more petulantly than I was intending.

He shook his head. "I don't like an audience, it puts me right off." He paused and gave a brief smile, in which I could see the embers of a dozen pleasant memories. "Well, unless it's Mr Middleton."

"Mm, _that's_ an interesting idea," I said, reaching down to rest my hand in his lap. "Would you like it if he were here right now?"

Vic laughed. "I wouldn't want to get him out of bed."

"No, you know what I mean…" I tried to pout, but I couldn't help laughing too. "What if he _were_ here, though? What if he were sitting in that chair right now, watching us?"

His hand moved up to my hair, and he stroked it for a moment, before those cruel fingers tightened their grip and yanked my head back sharply. "I'd show him why I spend so much time with you."

"Mm," I said, arching up against him, "and I thought it was my scintillating conversation…"

The arm around my waist moved lower, and his hand slid underneath me, down to cup my ass. His fingers kneaded and gripped me so tightly I couldn't help wincing, and at that he gave a rough laugh. "There's only one kind of conversation a boy like you's interested in."

A little moan welled up in my throat, and I could feel his cock straining against my palm, hard and intoxicatingly hot, even through the thick wool of his trousers. "A boy like me? And what kind of boy is that?"

"A dirty little whore," he said, grabbing hold of my wrists. Effortlessly, he hauled me over onto my stomach, positioning me so that I was facing the armchair in the corner. In seconds, he was kneeling behind me, pinning me down, grinding his cock against my ass. "And," he carried on, with his voice a perfect mixture of scorn and desire, "I'd show Mr Middleton exactly how much of a whore you are."

"Would he be shocked?"

"He'd be amused," Vic said, hauling me up onto my hands and knees. "And maybe impressed, depending how much you put your back into it."

I heard him opening the drawer of the bedside table, but my eyes were fixed on the empty armchair. I'd only seen Mr Middleton in photographs, but in my mind, the details of his appearance didn't really matter. I imagined him simply as a seasoned debauchee, older than the two of us put together, finely-dressed, and completely devoted to pleasure. I conjured him up like a phantasm, dressed his image in dark silks and velvet, and sketched his face full of lasciviously-smiling approval.

"I always put my back into it," I giggled, "so he'd be very impressed indeed."

Vic's fingers slid lightly between my buttocks, only briefly grazing my skin to wet it; I could take him easily these days, and as he pushed his cock into me, he barely had to restrain himself at all. Well, I could take it quickly, but certainly not quietly.

"Oh, you brute," I moaned, pushing back against him until the whole of his cock was inside me, "you utter brute, how could you treat a boy so cruelly in front of an audience?"

Vic laughed, and slid his dry hand around to grip my throat. "If that audience likes watching a cock-hungry little slut like you getting what's coming to him, I don't see the problem."

"Oh, is that what I am..?" I said, bracing my forearms against the bed, letting the frame of it absorb the force of his thrusts.

"That's exactly what you are." He brought his palm down hard against my ass. "Say it."

"I'm…" I began, but faltered quickly. Revelling in the words he said was one thing; saying them myself was quite another.

" _Say it_ ," he ordered, and yanked hard on my hair.

"I'm a cock-hungry little slut," I murmured, resting my burning face against my arms.

"I can't hear you." His voice was rough and cruel as he mocked me. "And if I can't hear you, neither could _he_. Say it louder."

"I'm a cock-hungry little slut." I raised my voice slightly, and it shook with the force of his hips slamming against me.

"That's right," he said, slapping my ass again. "And what does a slut like you need?"

"Your cock in my ass," I moaned. "I need it deep and hard, please, give it to me, don't stop…"

"A filthy mouth like that needs filling," he laughed, and pushed a couple of fingers between my lips. When I began to suck on them, he gave a deep groan and said "You love the thought of that, don't you? If he _was_ here, you'd be begging to suck Mr Middleton's cock, wouldn't you?"

I nodded and moaned against his fingers, sucking harder, more greedily, more desperately. I did love the thought, he was quite right, but it wasn't Mr Middleton specifically. It could have been anyone at all. Anyone Vic had told me to pleasure, I would have happily opened my mouth for. I would have gloried in it. I would have let a whole squadron of Vic's subordinates fuck me, if he'd given the command. As long as he was watching, enjoying it, telling me how terribly depraved I was, I would have done anything.

"That's my little whore," he said, pulling his fingers out of my mouth. His hand reached down beneath me, and as the wetness of it closed around my cock, I cried out as if he'd struck me.

"Oh, wait, Vic, if you do that, I won't be able to last—"

"I don't want you to last." He worked his hand over me, perfectly firmly, perfectly briskly, exactly as I liked it best. "I've been waiting for this all night, Stefan, and I'm not a patient man."

He was utterly ruthless. All these months of touching me, toying with me, using me, they gave him all the skill he needed to make me dance like a marionette under his hand. With his hand stroking me and his cock filling me, I was helpless. I bucked and squirmed underneath him, thrusting forward into his grip, pushing back to impale myself harder, trembling with pleasure. He drove me mercilessly towards satisfaction, as if he were marching me up a steep hill, step after step, stroke after stroke, thrust after thrust, hauling me up higher and higher, dragging me there bodily, until my head spun and I could hardly breathe. I cried out as the feeling overwhelmed me, wailing his name, begging for more and for mercy all at once.

When I'd finished, he turned me over as easily if I weighed nothing at all, barely breaking his rhythm as he arranged me on my back. He knelt between my thighs, leaning over me so that his face was above mine as he began to fuck me again, and then he brought his hand up to my lips again, and my head was flooded with the scent of my own come.

"Open," he ordered, and I obeyed without a word. He pushed his fingers into mouth, and when I began to lap at them, the groan he gave was deep and rough enough to conjure up an echo of the pleasure he'd just given me. I moaned around his fingers, and sucked harder still, lapping up every drop of come that clung to his skin, and in return he fucked me harder, faster, more cruelly than ever. I tipped my head back and closed my eyes, revelling in the ache that each thrust sent through my tired body, and I was so absorbed in the sensation that I didn't realise Vic had started to come until my hand brushed by chance against his back, and I felt the tension in his muscles. I opened my eyes quickly, but I'd missed all except the final act; I caught only the last few seconds, the last dim shadow of the pleasure in his eyes.

"What a good job we're already in the bedroom," I said afterwards, stretching out underneath him, "since you've thoroughly exhausted me."

"Yeah," he said, pushing himself up from the bed, "but if you think you're going to sleep without getting cleaned up first, you've got another think coming."

"Oh, alright," I laughed, "if you're going to be beastly about it, I suppose I've got no choice…"

I stood up, and followed him shakily into the bathroom. He slid his arms around my waist as I started to dry myself off. The warmth of him was intoxicating even now, even with my energy utterly spent. Now it was the quiet pleasure of intimacy that made my skin tingle. Now it was the thought of spending our first full night together, side by side in that ridiculously lavish bed, that made me smile and blush.

"We should do this again," he said, and he pressed his lips to my forehead so lightly that I could barely feel it.

"Mm, we should," I said, nodding. I'd been thinking the same thing, wishing we could spend more time together, wanting the luxury of not having to go our separate ways at the end of each evening. But I couldn't quite say as much, so I laughed, and said "Perhaps I should start insisting that you take me somewhere expensive before I'll let you lay a hand on me."

He seemed to understand my embarrassment, and was kind enough not to press me. Instead he laughed too, and brought his hand up to pat my cheek lightly. "What d'you think all those trips to the theatre are for?"

"Cultural enrichment," I said, over my shoulder, as I went back through to the bedroom. He followed me in, and I watched him from the bed as he began to take off the rest of his clothes. It was very different from all the other times I'd watched him undress. I followed the curve of his biceps with my eyes, thinking: _Those arms are going to be around me in a moment, holding me as I sleep_. I watched him taking off his trousers, and slipping on a set of dark burgundy pyjamas, thinking: _I'll feel that silk against my skin, cool at first, and then warming as I lie beside him_. I watched his face, the shadows under his eyes and the slight stubble on his chin, thinking: _If I had a nightmare,_ _I could wake him up and he'd comfort me, watch over me, kiss me and embrace me until I fell asleep again_. When he got into bed beside me, I wanted to fling my arms around him and cover him in kisses. Instead I waited until he slid his arm underneath my waist, and then I let him pull me close, as if his were the only desires that mattered.

"Did you enjoy yourself today, then?" he said, after he'd turned off the light.

"Oh yes, very much so."

"Good."

"It was nice to see Ray again, and I enjoyed meeting Patrick."

"Oh yeah?" he said softly, and kissed the top of my head. "I thought the two of you'd probably get on alright."

"In fact," I said casually, feeling very grateful that the room was too dark for Vic to see my blushing cheeks, "I think he made a pass at me."

"Did he?" Vic chuckled. "What did you say?"

"I said he'd have to talk to you."

"Did you?" He squeezed my hand gently. "Is that the way you want to do this, then?"

"Oh, I don't know…" I sighed, but I left my hand in his grip. "I've never been seriously involved with anyone before, I don't know what the rules are."

He shrugged. "The rules are whatever you want them to be."

"Have you?" I said, in a sudden little spasm of insecurity. "Been serious about anyone before, I mean."

"Yeah." There was a little pause. "Didn't work out, obviously."

Without thinking, I said "Why not?"

He took a deep breath, and when he exhaled I felt like I was watching the blood gushing out of a wound I'd just given him. "The first time," he said, very evenly, "it was because the boy couldn't handle how things are between me and Mr Middleton. The second time, he wanted me to go legit. Said if he wanted to worry whether his boyfriend was going to come back in one piece every night, he'd have shacked up with a copper. The third time…" Vic paused, and I wanted to tell him to stop, to put my hands on top of that wound and staunch the flow, but I couldn't. I had to hear it all. "The third time, the boy was hung up on Ray all along, only I didn't realise til after I'd gotten attached. Then the last time, the feeling just went one day, and we kept trying for months, but it never came back."

"Oh, Vic…" I sighed, feeling now as if my lack of experience was a lucky escape in disguise.

He gave a grim chuckle. "I know how to pick them, don't I?"

"Well, this time you're in luck," I said, squeezing his hand, "because _I_ picked _you_."

"Can't argue with that," he laughed.

"Anyway," I carried on, "that _is_ the way I want to do this."

"What is?"

"I want you to have the deciding vote, if someone else propositions me."

"Alright, that's fine by me," he said, and there was another little pause. "What about the other way on, though? D'you want a say in whether I get involved with other boys?"

"Oh no," I said, surprising myself with my vehemence. "I've no desire to dictate what you do or don't do." And then a little thorn of doubt jabbed me in the side, threatening to make a liar of me. "Well, unless the other boy tried to usurp my position, of course," I added hurriedly. "Then I'd want a say."

"Oh yeah?" Vic chuckled. "And what position's that?"

_Your number one boy_ , I wanted to reply, but the sentiment embarrassed me, and the words refused to come. Instead I laid my head on his chest, and said "The number one drain on your finances, of course."


	7. Chapter 7

There was a golden period that followed, during which I felt I'd unlocked the secret to a good life. I barely saw the inside of my lovely new flat; every evening was spent either with Vic or with one of the new friends I'd made, and I came home only to sleep. My weekends mostly belonged to Vic, except for the occasional shopping trip or matinee I squeezed in with my little group of friends, which he called my Under-30s Club. They were boys on Mr Middleton's payroll—bellboys and waiters and back-office clerks—boys who didn't know Vic personally but who certainly knew his reputation, and who had no problem with the nature of his business. It was an immense relief to me, just to go drinking and dancing and shopping with other boys who had found themselves on the wrong side of the law. Some of them had lovers who were in prison, or on the run, and I was drawn especially to those boys. I knew I might end up in the same situation, and I suppose I hoped that they might teach me how to cope with it gracefully, if something ever happened to Vic.

My closest friend at that point was one of Patrick's new hires, a strawberry-blond ex-bank clerk called David, who had left his hometown and his steady job to come here with his car-thief boyfriend—only to find himself suddenly alone, when his boyfriend was arrested. He was bearing the separation reasonably well, keeping himself busy with work and indulging in the occasional brief little fling, and although he drank quite heavily, I regarded him as a success. He hadn't fallen entirely to pieces, after all. For his part, David seemed to think of me as a veteran. I'd only been seeing Vic for six months, but to a newcomer like him, that made me almost an old-hand. He used to quiz me relentlessly when he was very drunk, as if I must naturally have known everything that went on in the organisation, and in the heads of all of its major players. And I, of course, lapped up every minute of the attention.

"What's he like," David asked me once, cradling his seventh cocktail of the evening. "I mean _really_ , what's he like _really_?"

"Who, Vic?"

"No," he scoffed, rolling his eyes. "I mean Ray, _obviously_."

"I haven't the faintest idea!" I laughed. "I think Vic's the only one who could answer _that_ question. Or Mr Middleton, I suppose. But don't go asking _him_ , dear."

"Oh, _no_ ," David said, drawing the word out with a long, whispery vowel. "No, no, no, no, absolutely not."

"And anyway," I said, taking the drink away from him before he spilled it, "the more interesting question is: what's _Patrick_ like, really?"

"Awful." he declared firmly. "Absolutely awful. I hate him. He never lets me leave early, and last week he told me my new hairstyle was hideous. He said if I didn't go and get it redone, he'd take a pair of scissors to it himself!"

"Oh, how rude," I said, patting his hand. It was lucky that David was too far gone to pay much attention to me; if he'd looked at my face, he would have seen the flicker of a heated little daydream, full of discipline and venom and vicious cruelty.

"Mm." David nodded sleepily. "Don't know why we put up with him."

I looked at him, with his beautiful suit, and his pristine French manicure, and his glittering jewellery no bank clerk could afford, and I couldn't help laughing. "No, darling," I said, quietly. "Neither do I."

 

* * *

 

The only dull patch in the routine of my life was work. I had the same clerical job I'd held when I met Vic, and the absurdity of the situation was just beginning to bother me, like an itchy detail in an otherwise perfect garment. I'd started to resent my job, but I felt guilty and embarrassed about that resentment, and when Vic eventually raised the issue, I didn't take kindly to it at all.

"Stefan," he said one night, as we were driving home from the theatre, "I've been thinking."

"Oh yes?"

"This job of yours."

"Mm," I murmured warily, "what about it?"

"Well, it's not one you're doing for the fun of it."

"I think that's the case for _most_ people, Vic."

"Well, yeah, of course," he said, gruffly. "But you're not most people, are you?"

I laughed, but it was a flimsy, brittle sound. "No, I suppose I'm not."

"So I was thinking, why don't you just quit?"

"Quit?" I said, knowing perfectly well what he meant, but playing dumb out of a kind of perverse, guilty hostility. "I'd love to, except that there's this little bothersome thing called rent, Vic."

"I'll pay it." Vic glanced at me, smiling into the scowl that was slowly forming on my face. "You know I could easily cover your expenses, Stefan. There's no need for you to work."

"No need?" I said, suddenly furious. "No _need_? And what happens to me if you get tired of all this? What happens if you decide you don't want me around any more?"

He frowned. "That's not going to happen."

"Maybe not," I said, "but what if it _does_? What do I do then? Two or three years down the line, if you get tired of me, how do I get another job with a hole that big in my CV?"

Vic was silent, and he kept his eyes on the road.

"Imagine it. What were you doing for money these last three years, Mr Edwards? Well, sir, I was a kept boy for a while, but I don't have any wageslips—perhaps you'd like to ring my ex-boyfriend for a character reference? That'd go down _marvellously_ at an interview, wouldn't it?"

"Alright," he said, quietly. "Alright, I get the message."

"No, no, I don't think you do," I carried on, unable to stop now that the cork was out of the bottle. "It's easy for you, Vic, because even if Mr Middleton abandoned you, you've got enough contacts to set up shop on your own with only the slightest bit of effort, haven't you? You and Ray could go it alone right now, and you'd be fine, wouldn't you? Mr Middleton could be run over by a bus tomorrow and—"

"Stefan!" he barked. It was the angriest I'd ever heard him.

"But _I_ wouldn't be alright." I kept going, only slightly chastened. "You'd let me become completely dependent on you, wouldn't you? Knowing that if you got tired of me, I'd have nothing. You're so selfish. You're not thinking about me _at all_."

"Alright, fine." He stopped the car, and when I looked out of the window, I realised we were in my street, not his. "Go on, go inside," he said, with his voice heavy and cold like granite. "I'll come and see you tomorrow."

"Don't bother." I got out of the car, slammed the door for good measure, and walked away before he said another word.

 

* * *

 

"Oh, sweetheart, look at you…" David said, putting his arm around me. I thought I'd woken him up, but he looked as if he might have been halfway to bed when I rang. He was draped in a purple silk robe and pyjamas, but his face was still powdered and his throat was still perfumed; I caught a hint of jasmine and lilies as he shepherded me into the living room. When I was sitting by the fire, nestling in the corner of his huge blue velvet sofa, he put his hands on his hips and declared "I think _someone_ needs a drink, don’t you?"

I nodded, and watched him fill a couple of glasses with whiskey. He always kept an enormous bottle of the stuff around, and always the most expensive brand he could get. The novelty of earning so much still hadn't worn off for David—and considering that Patrick's boys made easily three times what I did as a clerk, I couldn't blame him.

"Now, then," he said, sitting down next to me. "What's that big oaf done to upset you?"

"He's not an oaf," I said, in a brief, petulant little flash of loyalty. "He's a selfish idiot…" And I started crying again, so pathetically that when I looked up, David had downed the whole of his drink in one. In-between sobs, I explained the situation to him, giving him selected highlights of the argument, and expanding on my side of things at length. Throughout it all, David nodded and smiled and patted my hand, and at the end of my speech he took a long, deep breath.

"Well," he said, filling his glass again, "Vic is completely in the wrong, of course, but I think I can see just a tiny bit of his perspective."

"Can you?" I folded my arms, and frowned. I was calm enough now to be more argumentative than pitiful. " _I_ can't."

"Well, look at it this way, darling," he continued, pausing to sip his drink, "Vic was, what, seventeen when Mr Middleton took him in?"

"Eighteen," I corrected him churlishly.

"Eighteen." David smiled and nodded. "Then he's been looked after by his very generous patron for well over a decade, hasn't he? He's never known anything else. He probably hasn't even _had_ a normal job, has he?"

"No…" I said, not particularly happy about where this line of argument was going.

"So of course he can't empathise with you. He doesn't know what it's like not to be able to depend on the man you're seeing, because he's been under Mr Middleton's wing essentially _forever_. He might understand it up here," he said, tapping his forehead with one glossy fingernail, "but he doesn't understand how it _feels_ , and it's never going to occur to him automatically."

"Mm." I said, sipping my drink.

"So I don't think you should quit your job—that would be madness, darling—but I think perhaps it might be reasonable to give the poor fool a bit of leeway when he gets things wrong. I suppose we both know how it feels to be out of place, not understanding how things work, or what other people are thinking. It must be like that for him, when he talks to boys like us. It must be like being on an another planet, sometimes—all these people with experiences and motives and thoughts you're never going to understand. It must be quite lonely, at times."

"Yes, it must…" I said, reluctantly.

"Oh, gosh, listen to me, pontificating like a great sage," David laughed. "Too much talking, and not enough drinking, I'd say!"

The next morning, I almost rang Vic on my way home from David's house, but something stopped me. I was halfway to being ready to apologise, but I was so embarrassed by my outburst that somehow I felt that relenting too quickly would make me seem even more unreasonable; surely, I thought, if I'd been at least partly in the right, I should take a little longer to calm down. So I spent the day on my own, wandering aimlessly around shops, buying cups of tea in cafes that I left untouched, and walking along the promenade. I felt like a ghost. I was waiting for the right moment to come back to life, but it couldn't be rushed.

When I finally went home in the evening, I saw a figure in a long overcoat standing outside my front door, leaning against the railings. At first I thought it was Vic, of course, but on a second glance it became clear the figure was Ray.

"Hello, Stefan," he said, giving me one of his warm, casual smiles.

"Hello." I kept my tone polite, but icy.

"Can I come in? Just to talk."

"I don't see why not." I shrugged, as if all of this meant nothing at all to me.

He followed me in, and stood silently by the empty fireplace as I closed the door and shrugged off my coat.

"Would you like a drink? I'm going to put the kettle on." I said lightly, breezing into the kitchen without looking at him. I wanted to give him the impression he'd interrupted me in the middle of a busy, normal, thoroughly domestic day.

"Stefan, listen," he said, following me into the kitchen.

"I'm listening."

"He's knows he's in the wrong."

"Oh, does he?"

"Yeah," Ray carried on, in the most serious tone I'd ever heard from him, "I had it out with him this morning, and I told him how stupid he'd been. He gets it, he really does."

"Well, why isn't he here apologising, then? Why is it you standing in my kitchen being earnest and mournful, not him?"

"Because you told him not to come round."

"Because I told him—" Sheer frustration choked off my words, and I slammed the kettle down. "That _stupid_ man," I muttered. "That stupid, _stupid_ man."

"So, look, can you just ring him?" Ray said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Just tell him to come and say sorry, will you? Otherwise he's going to keep on being a complete misery indefinitely, and it's getting right on my wick."

He sounded so much like his brother then that I couldn't help smirking. "Oh, alright, I'll ring him now," I said, pushing past him to pick up the telephone. There was a weary smile on his lips as he watched me, and I couldn't resist asking. "Do you do this kind of thing often? Playing peacemaker between Vic and his boys, I mean."

"Not that often," he replied, with his usual carefree tone firmly back in place. "And only for the ones who really matter to him."

 

* * *

 

The tide was in, and through the fogged-up windows, I could just make out the lights of the pier twinkling on the water, and the greyish-white foam of the waves. I stirred my tea slowly and stared at the garish gingham of the tablecloth, trying to put off the moment when I would finally have to speak.

"I'm sorry too," I said at last. "For overreacting so badly. I really am a nightmare sometimes, aren't I?"

"No," he said, very gravely. "Nowhere near."

I picked up my cup, and sipped at it. "You know I'm not going to quit my job, don't you?"

"Yeah, of course," Vic said, frowning a little, as if I'd insulted him. "It'd be a reckless thing to do, I know that now."

"Good."

"I was thinking, though, what about letting Mr Middleton sort you out with a nicer one? Somewhere you'd be treated nicely, but that'd look good on your CV as well."

"What, at one of his clubs?"

"No, at one of his friends' companies. He's got loads of connections, it'd be no trouble at all to fix you up with something legit. Well, relatively legit."

"That does sound like a reasonable idea," I said, nodding slowly. "But only if I can choose the job myself."

"Course you can," he said, reaching out to put his hand on top of mine. "Whatever you fancy, you just tell me, and I'll have a word with Mr Middleton."

"Okay," I said, risking a little smile. "Thank you, Vic."

The two of us were on an even keel again, and I can remember thinking we'd done all the hard work required to build a strong foundation. _Now_ I understood him, _now_ he understood me, _now_ there would be no more stormy weather. I really thought the clear skies were here to stay.


	8. Chapter 8

"You've what?"

"I've resigned," I said again, lightly.

"Why?" he said, taking hold of my hand. "What happened, did someone upset you? Tell me who it was, and I'll—"

"Oh, don’t be so dramatic," I sighed. "It was nothing like that, I just didn't like the job."

"You just didn't like it?" He repeated the words back at me incredulously.

"That's right," I said, hoping this would be the end of it. "You were very kind to arrange it, but it just wasn't a good fit for me."

His face fell, and he shook his head. "You've only been there a few days, how can you tell if it's a good fit?"

"They made me work til _half past_ _seven_ last night! Of course I can tell it's not right for me."

"But you knew there'd be long hours involved." He was looking at me with a mixture of disappointment and confusion in his eyes, as if he hoped he'd simply misunderstood me, and perhaps I hadn't done anything quite so foolish after all. "It's part and parcel of the job, isn't it?"

Actually, I hadn't known; I'd told Vic that I researched the job thoroughly, but at that point my definition of thorough research extended only to skimming a few magazine articles. The long hours, among many other things, had been a complete and very unpleasant surprise to me.

"That's not the point," I said, pivoting away from the sour thought of my own negligence. "Honestly, Vic, I don't know why you're making such a commotion. You didn't even want me to work in the first place, remember?"

"Yeah, and you made a big fuss about wanting a job, didn't you? And not just any old job, oh no, it had to be one you'd hand-picked, didn't it? You practically _begged_ me to sort this out for you, and now five minutes later, you turn around and say you don't want it after all."

"What does it matter?" I slammed my glass down. The people sitting at the nearby tables turned to look, but the attention didn't put me off. It simply stoked the fire of my indignation. "Aren't I allowed to change my mind? How long should I have stayed there, being miserable? A year? Five years? Long enough to get my gold-plated carriage-clock?"

"You should have thought it through properly in the first place." His voice was quiet and grim now, and I could tell he was about to burst into one of his rages. "You've made me look like a fool, Stefan."

"Well, so what? Why should you care if some no-name little bureaucrat thinks less of you?"

"Less of me," he said, with his fist clenched and his knuckles paling under the pressure. "And less of Mr Middleton."

That should have been the red light that stopped me. It didn't even slow me down; it made me furious. "Oh, to hell with Mr Middleton!"

He stood up suddenly, forcing his chair back with a screech. "You watch that mouth, Stefan."

"Or what? Or you'll shut it for me, is that what you mean? You're not getting your way, so you're going to start waving your fists around, is that how it is?"

"No," he said, with such an incredibly hurt expression that I felt I might as well have stabbed him. "D'you really think I'd hit you?"

I didn't. I was just trying to be clever, just trying to score points, but I couldn't back down. "Maybe," I said, shrugging. "How do I know what you're capable of?"

He looked at me silently, and after a few seconds, he took out his wallet and threw a couple of notes down on the table. "There should be enough there for the drinks and a taxi," he said, very blankly, as if he were made of stone.

"What?" I said, but he'd already turned his back. I called after him as he walked away. "You're just going to leave? Aren't you a little too old to throw tantrums, Vic?" But it was pointless. I doubt he was even listening to me. Ray told me later that sometimes, when he's in very trying circumstances, Vic finds himself retreating into a kind of haze, a sort of fog of sleepwalking distractedness that very little can get through. To this day, one of the things I'm most ashamed of in my life is how many times Vic retreated into that haze because of me.

 

* * *

 

"Have you had another row with the ungentle giant?"

"Do stop calling him that," I said, with a frown. "It's not very nice, and if anyone hears you…"

"Oh, yes. Sorry." David gave a sheepish little laugh. "I'm afraid I'm in a sort of permanent sulk at the moment, since I've been put on bread-and-water rations." He held up his glass, and wrinkled his nose at the bubbles in his sparkling water.

"How are you finding it?"

"Pretty wretched," he said, stroking his fingertips down along the side of the glass. "Things are so much harder to manage without a real drink in my hand. But!" he carried on, throwing me a really quite charming smile, "It's certainly better than losing my job, and besides, it's not very long now until Eric gets out, anyway."

"Mm, just think," I said, putting my hand on his arm, "in a few weeks' time, you'll be showing him off to all your glamorous new friends, watching them fight over him…"

He grinned. "I know, isn't it exciting!"

"And I'll probably be out on the street, by then." I sighed. "Do you think you'd be able to put me up for a while, if I'm evicted?"

"Oh, sweetheart, is it really that bad?"

"Well, you see, I've quit that new job, so…"

"You've _quit_?" He looked completely aghast. "Why on earth would you do that, dear?"

"Oh, I just got tired of it, that's all." I shrugged, and tried to maintain a carefree tone. "And of course I'd assumed that Vic would be able to arrange a different job for me, but it seems I miscalculated. So now I've got no job, no rent money, and quite possibly no boyfriend. What a smashing success this week has been, eh?"

"Oh, Stefan," he said, furrowing his brow. "What were you thinking?"

"Well, I suppose I _wasn't_ thinking, really. It was just an impulse."

"An impulse!" he scoffed. "I wish _I_ had the luxury of acting on stupid impulses."

"Oh, don't be snide to me, not tonight, I can't take it." I propped my chin up on my hand, and sighed again. "Besides, you can't say I'm not being punished for it."

"Well, let's try to think constructively," David said, much softer now. "Have you apologised to Vic? That should really be your first step."

"Oh, er, no." I looked down, and studied the tassels on the edge of the sofa. "Actually, I got very angry, and I said some quite awful things."

"Well, apologise to him, then!" David said, handing me the telephone. "Whatever you said, tell him you regret it, and then tell him you're extremely sorry for resigning. And don't try to weasel out of the blame for all this!" He wagged his finger at me. "I know you, Stefan, and you're as slippery as an eel when that ego of yours is in danger."

"Alright, alright," I picked up the receiver, and began to dial. "But don't stand there listening, this is going to be awkward enough as it is."

He gave me a little smile and a pat on the shoulder, and disappeared upstairs, but he really needn't have bothered. There was no answer at Vic's place. I tried Ray's number too, but he didn't pick up either. I considered ringing Mr Middleton's house—Vic had given me the number as a precaution—but I couldn't bring myself to go that far. Instead I dug out my address book, and called a few of the clubs that Vic usually went to; the third place I tried bore fruit, but it was a very bitter harvest.

"Oh, he's out of town, isn't he?" the barman said. "Him and Ray'll be gone all week, as far as I know."

"Oh." I didn't know what to say. Every time Vic had been away on business in the past, he'd always visited me the day before and given me a present. _To say sorry for leaving you on your own_ , he'd say, as he handed it over. And then each time he came back, there'd be another gift, and a night out wherever I wanted. It had become an odd ritual of ours, one that I thought Vic had initiated to make himself feel better, but which over time had apparently become very important to me. I only realised how much I missed that soothing little ritual when it was taken away.

"Well, d'you want to leave a message, in case he rings?" the barman said, rather wearily, as if he'd had this conversation a dozen times before.

"No," I said, feeling suddenly very small, and very alone. "No, thanks, it's okay."

I put the receiver down, curled up on the sofa, and began to cry.

 

* * *

 

The most unfortunate effect of having both left your job and alienated your boyfriend on the same day is that you suddenly find yourself with an abundance of spare time in which to contemplate your folly. Sleep allowed me to spend a few of those hours pleasantly, but the rest were long and empty. I saw my friends, of course, and I positively plagued David with telephone calls and visits, to the point that people began to wonder if perhaps _he_ was the reason for the rift—and this gossip pained me on two counts: firstly, because Vic was of course far from the jealous type, and secondly, because as attractive as I found David, I knew perfectly well that he had absolutely no interest in boys his own age—but in-between the afternoons and evenings I spent boring my friends with my troubles, there were countless hours of silent, mocking solitude.

The radio didn't help. It played songs I'd danced to with Vic, music we'd seen performed, and incessantly chattering voices that did nothing to ease my loneliness. Magazines were no use, either. They merely showed me clothes I wanted to wear for Vic, or boys I wished I could see him with. Books were entirely out of the question, because I had no concentration to give to them. I was a walking, sighing, sobbing bundle of nerves. My sense of desire left me, too, as if Vic had packed it in his briefcase and carried it away with him. That was the worst side-effect of all. I would look down at my apathetic body and think: _If I cannot even console myself with pleasure, then what's the use of anything?_

When Vic came back to town a week later, I was more than ready to apologise. I would have gotten down on my knees in the middle of the high street and begged, if he'd asked me to. But he didn't give me the chance.

"I'm back," he said, as soon as I'd picked up the phone.

"Oh! Oh Vic, I'm so glad you're back," I gushed, clutching the receiver so tightly my fingers ached. "I'm sorry—for what I've done, and for those awful things I said—for all of it, for everything, I'm really am sorry, Vic, I—"

"It's alright," he cut me off gruffly.

"It is?"

"Yeah."

"You've forgiven me?"

"Yeah."

"Oh, Vic, _thank you_ , thank you so much, I really thought I'd—"

"I've got to go."

"Oh." I said, feeling somehow as if I'd been chided. "Oh, okay. Will I see you tomorrow?"

"Yeah." There was a pause, long and heavy enough to fill my stomach with dread. "I'll pick you up at eight."

"Okay!" I said, as cheerfully as I could. "I'll see you tomorrow, then!"

"Alright," he said, very flatly, and hung up.

What I didn't realise then, and what was quite a painful lesson to learn, is that for all the theatrics involved in his profession, for all the violence and the fury and the fireworks, the worst thing Vic can do to you isn't to blow up. It's to brood.

 

* * *

 

"I think someone needs a bit of special attention," I said, leaning over the back of the armchair to drape my arms around his shoulders. I could just smell his cologne, and the warmth of its scent felt like a mockery of the passion he used to show me. Still I persisted, sliding my hand down over his chest, and pressing my lips to his cheek.

"Leave it out, Stefan," he snapped. "I'm not in the mood."

"No," I said quietly, standing up again. "No, I suppose you're not."

He'd been this way for a fortnight. There, but not there. Present, but silent, still, and cold. When I'd told David what was going on, he'd made a joke of it— _But how can you possibly tell the difference, darling? Isn't it like kissing a stone statue even at the best of times?_ —and I'd exploded, taking out all my frustration and bitterness on him, declaring loudly that David knew nothing, that in private Vic was the most loving, jovial, passionate man I'd ever met. Then I'd broken down again, and spent an hour sobbing on David's shoulder, while he tried to soothe me. But nothing could soothe me except the affection Vic was withholding. That's what I told myself: it wasn't that his feelings for me had changed, it was just that he was holding them back. I hadn't ruined anything. I hadn't spoiled the only satisfying relationship I'd ever had. It was just a protracted tantrum; he'd emotionally sent me to Coventry, and when he calmed down, he'd go back to his normal, demonstrative self. Everything would go back to normal. In a year's time, we'd be laughing about this.

I told myself that every night like a prayer, even as I cried myself to sleep.

From then on, I spent my days applying for new jobs. Shop work, office work, bar work, anything that would bring in even a bit of money. I knew that if I'd asked him, Vic would have given me whatever I needed for food and rent, but in my naivety I thought that starting a new job would show him I was really sorry. I had a little daydream I liked to comfort myself with, of telephoning Vic from a phonebox outside my imaginary new workplace, and asking him if we could perhaps meet half an hour later that night. _I've got to stay late,_ I'd tell him. _Yes, I've got a new job, isn't it wonderful?_ And his voice would swell with pride, and he'd congratulate me warmly, and when he arrived to pick me up that night he'd bring an extravagant present with him. _To say sorry for leaving you out in the cold,_ he'd say, with that endearing bashfulness of his. I'd set the gift aside and throw my arms around him, and he'd gather me up into an embrace that felt as if it would never end.

After a couple of weeks, I finally got a job as a senior accounts clerk in a little firm on the outskirts of town. It was an awful commute, over an hour each way on the bus, and although the job title was a step up, the pay was worse than I'd had for years. I was one of a tiny handful of staff, and I didn't get on with any of them, which made the frequent late nights far more taxing than they should have been. At first, I didn't tell Vic about the job; when I couldn't make an afternoon or early-evening date, I blamed it on previous plans with my friends. My tiredness, I explained away by claiming to have caught a little cold. Then, after a full week in the job, I finally announced my news.

"I know I should probably have told you sooner," I said, giving Vic a cautious smile, "but I wanted to be sure it would stick, before I mentioned it."

"Mentioned what?"

I tried to keep even the slightest hint of pride out of my voice. "I've got a new job. I only started last Monday, but it's been going quite well."

He didn't even look up. He just nodded and said "Has it?" as flatly as if I'd told him I'd been to the hairdressers.

"Yes," I carried on, "it's on one of those little estates in the north end of town. It's not very much, but I thought… Well, I thought it would be a good idea." I'd been striving for a bright, cheerful tone, but as I went on, my voice became smaller and weaker, and by the end of it I sounded close to tears.

"Oh." Vic said, and carried on reading the newspaper.

I didn't intend to make any kind of scene, but somehow the emptiness of his reaction worked like a vacuum to draw out all the frustration that had been curdling inside me for weeks. "Is that it?" I said, grabbing the paper out of his hands and throwing it aside. "Is that all you've got to say?"

He looked up at me with so much disdain in his eyes that I almost flinched. "What do you want," he said, very bitterly, "a long service award?"

"Oh, you're impossible!" I cried. "I can't win!"

"Give it a rest, Stefan," he barked. "I've got enough on my plate without you carrying on."

"But I don't know what you want me to _do_!" I shouted. "I've apologised a hundred times, I've found myself a new job, I've done everything I possibly could to prove that I'm sorry, and you're still punishing me!"

He glowered at me. "I'm not punishing you."

"You are!" I insisted. "Why else would you treat me so coldly?"

"I just—" He interrupted himself with a snarl of frustration, and clenched his fists hard against his thighs. "I just can't figure out what all this means. I'm trying to, and I can't."

"What all _what_ means?"

"Why you act like this," he said, with a deep sigh. "Why I can't depend on you. Whether you can change."

And somehow, finally, slowly, the real issue began to dawn on me. "You want to depend on me?" I said quietly. "On _me_?"

"Yeah, of course I do." He was frowning, but I could see a little bit of light in his eyes. Just a glimmer, but enough to give me hope.

"But _why_?" I shook my head gently. "I mean, look at me, Vic. I'm not exactly right-hand-man material, am I? I'm just…" And there I trailed off, unable to give voice to the idea.

"Just what?"

I looked up at the ceiling, and then away towards the window. I could feel my eyes moistening, and my throat tightening. "Well, just a bit of frippery," I said, shakily. "Just something to amuse yourself with."

"Stefan, come on," he said, standing up and taking hold of my hands. "D'you really think that?"

"Yes," I said, glancing cautiously at his face again. "Don't you?"

"No!" The vehemence in his voice shocked me, and my eyes widened as he continued. "Of course not. Of course I want to depend on you. You're not just a plaything, Stefan, _you're_ _my boy_. I want to depend on you just like Mr Middleton depends on me."

At that, I couldn't help giving a tearful little laugh.

"Alright," he said, with a gentle chuckle. "Maybe not _exactly_ like that. But you know what I mean, don't you?"

"Yes…" I nodded slowly. "I think so."

"So what I'm trying to figure out," he carried on, "is whether I'll ever be able to count on you that way." He said it gently, but no amount of kindness could soften the sting of those words.

"You will," I said, nodding. "You _can_ rely on me."

"Can I?"

I looked down at his hands, at the way his fingers cupped mine, so much stronger, so much older, so much rougher, like a sturdy nest surrounding a clutch of soft, defenceless chicks. "I don't know." I said, quietly. "I don't know if I can really be reliable, but I'll try."

"As long as you're trying…" he said, bringing his hand up to my cheek. "As long as you're _really_ trying, that's good enough for me."

I smiled at him, and rubbed my cheek against his palm. "Oh, I'd say I'm _very_ trying, wouldn't you?"

"Yeah," he said, pulling me towards him, "but I reckon I can put up with it."

 

* * *

 

We took slow, faltering steps over the next few months. When he was free, Vic would pick me up from my new office and spend the whole night with me, sometimes taking me out, sometimes taking me straight back to his apartment if I'd had a tiring day. It didn't seem to matter what we did; as long as I was with him, I was happy. Gradually we began to spend more and more nights together, mostly at his place but quite often at mine, until I could hardly remember what it had ever been like to have breakfast alone. Throughout it all, though, there was a little part of me that wondered whether he had really forgiven me. Whether he ever really _could_ forgive me. Then one Sunday morning, as I sat at Vic's kitchen table, watching him making a fresh pot of tea, he very casually gave me the sign I'd been waiting for.

"Have you got anything on next Saturday?" he said, glancing at me over his shoulder.

I smiled and shook my head. "No, I don’t think so. Why, where are you taking me?"

"Well, Mr Middleton's throwing a party to celebrate that new club opening."

"Oh, the one near the Grand?" I said, trying to remember the name of the place. I'd heard about this club back when it was only in the planning stage, and I thought it was an excellent idea. My only reservation, which of course I'd kept to myself, was that it would create a sort of two-tier class system amongst Patrick's staff; the boys who weren't chosen for the new club, especially the very sensitive ones like David, were bound to feel aggrieved.

"Yeah, that's the one." Vic sat down across from me, and passed me my cup. "Anyway, I want you to come to the party with me."

I paused, mid-sip. "To the party?"

"Yeah."

"Will I be meeting Mr Middleton?"

"Well, yeah." He took a very large sip of his own tea, and then began to fidget with the sugar spoon. "Ray's been on at me for ages about it. He says it's about time I brought you round so Mr Middleton can have a good look at what's keeping me busy these days."

I couldn't help giggling. "You make me sound like a new hobby you've taken up."

"Yeah," he laughed, "and it's a very pricey, time-consuming one, too."

"Well, I'd love to come." I said, reaching over to put my hand in his. "But you do realise, don't you, that this means I'm going to need a new outfit..?"

He smiled, and squeezed my hand. "When _don't_ you?"


	9. Chapter 9

"Well, isn't this wonderful?" Gerald said, smiling broadly. "You've made a paradise of this little place, Ambrose."

Mr Middleton laughed, and waved his hand to dismiss the notion. "The raw material was really all there before I began. My boys and I merely had to polish it a little."

"Polished is definitely the word," Marcus said, almost reverently. He was the manager of the club, brought in from outside especially for the job, and he struck me as a very dour man who quietly nursed a little soft spot for his new employer.

"Yes, and it certainly takes a great deal of insight to see the potential in an overlooked spot like this. But then," Gerald carried on, throwing Mr Middleton an amiable smirk, "I suppose you've always had a very good eye for diamonds in the rough, haven't you?"

Anyone but a close friend would have very quickly regretted joking about the twins, I thought. As it was, Mr Middleton and Ray laughed, and even Vic smiled slightly. I felt quite at sea, understanding almost nothing of what I was seeing and hearing. I simply stood there and watched them quietly, from the very furthest edge of the crowd. My position in the hierarchy was intermediate, I thought—above the lowest-ranking of Patrick's boys, certainly—but I kept to the periphery anyway. Mr Middleton was standing in the centre of the room with Marcus. The twins were close by, flanking him like a pair of guard-dogs, while Gerald and his boy Tony were off to one side, inspecting the plasterwork of the elaborate arch decorating the main door. A handful of Patrick's boys were clustered around them, and Patrick stood behind his charges, watching over them with steady, snakelike vigilance. And me? I stood beside the youngest pair of boys, listening to them murmur and chatter, and feeling as utterly out of place as I had that first night in the Bay Tree. A small part of me longed to run away and hide, but my position these days—and how novel that I even _had_ a position—would not allow for cowardice.

"Stefan," Vic called out. "Come over here, I want to introduce you."

My heart seemed to come to a crashing halt, frozen in ice. I'd been daydreaming rather sentimentally about this introduction for weeks, but now that the moment of truth had come, I was terrified. My hands were trembling as I stepped forward.

"Ah, yes, Victor's young man," Mr Middleton said, shaking my hand firmly. As his hand gripped mine, I found myself suddenly awestruck. He was handsome, certainly, and clearly very wealthy, but it was more than that. The most coherent explanation I can give you is: in that moment, I understood instantly and completely why Vic and Ray found themselves compelled to submit to his authority. He was relaxed, and charming, and extremely friendly, yet he exuded power and control as clearly as any iron-fisted tyrant. Looking at Mr Middleton, I found myself thinking that if you could manoeuvre yourself into his good books, you would feel absolutely safe and secure.

"It's lovely to meet you, sir," I said, smiling as steadily as I could. A quick glance at Vic confirmed that I was on the right track, so I pressed on. "Vic's told me so much about you."

"Likewise, my dear boy." Mr Middleton said, letting go of my hand. "Now, tell me, what do you think of the club?"

"Oh, it's wonderful," I said, and in my mind I was flailing desperately, struggling to catch the mood of the conversation. Would he want me to be honest, and say it was quite intimidatingly opulent? Would he respect me more if I pretended to be underwhelmed? Should I ask an intelligent question—what would even _count_ as an intelligent question? I was utterly lost, and I glanced helplessly at Vic.

"It's a bit on the small side," Vic said, putting his arm around my waist. "But I reckon it's got a nice, intimate feel to it."

"Oh yes," I said, nodding vigorously. "Marvellously intimate."

"Good, good." Mr Middleton smiled, and finally the spotlight of his attention moved away from me. "Now, then, Gerald, I promised you a tour, didn't I? And Tony, of course—let me show you both the private rooms."

"Absolutely, old darling," Gerald said, and as he followed Mr Middleton towards the staircase, he cast a glance back at Tony. The boy was leaning against one of the pillars near the door, with his leather jacket slung carelessly over one shoulder, and a cigarette hanging loosely between his lips. He had on the kind of tight little sleeveless shirt you see on workmen in the summer, and the bare skin of his arms was dappled with bruises and tattoos. He looked like the kind of young tough they put on the cover of those magazines I usually have to dig through at the newsagents to find a copy of _Déshabillé_. "Come along, Tony," Gerald said. "And remember, I want you on your best behaviour. I'd rather not be presented with a bill for damages when we leave."

Tony laughed, and rubbed the back of his neck, and said "Yeah, of course," in the most clipped, cut-glass voice you could imagine.

"What a poseur," the boy next to me muttered under his breath, once Tony was out of earshot. This was Jimmy, the only one of Patrick's inner circle that I knew by name. The rest of the group, I knew only by the sneering nicknames David had invented for them. As I watched them milling around, I could almost hear his voice in my ear, taking quiet little pot-shots. Jimmy was the least objectionable of the group—being essentially cut from the same ragged, opportunistic, amoral cloth as David's absent boyfriend—and so he, alone, was allowed to keep his name. The tall, pale boy standing beside Patrick was The Raven, named for his black hair, his penchant for black satin, and his ruthlessness— _He's a disgusting little carrion feeder,_ I remembered David saying, _and he'd pick your corpse to pieces before you were even cold_. He was Patrick's favourite, and the highest-earner in their little troupe. The strapping blond standing next to Ray was The Farmhand, who came up here for a seaside holiday one year, and was so taken with the place that he never went home— _When he talks, you can almost see the rolling hills and hear the lowing cows. He's so very wholesome and healthy, darling, it makes me quite sick_. The fragile-looking redhead standing beside Vic was The Schoolboy. He was the second oldest of their group, around the same age as me, but his delicate frame and his soft features allowed him to easily pass as a teenager, and so he brought in almost as much money as The Raven— _And isn't it despicable that there's a market for such things_ , David had declared, before I'd reminded him that he was in the habit of shaving more than a few years off his own age when asked.

I wondered how I seemed to them. What gossip might they have heard? What might David have said about me? And had Patrick ever mentioned me to his charges? Most likely I was just another hanger-on to them, I thought. Just another little gold-digger, desperately striving to be amusing and pleasing, but hopelessly out of his depth. I tormented myself with thoughts like these, as I watched them. I was so absorbed in my self-flagellation that I didn't even hear Ray approaching me.

"Congratulations," he said, handing me a glass of wine. "Looks like you made the grade."

"Did I?" I accepted the drink gratefully, and took a very large sip. "That's a relief, I thought I'd done abysmally."

"Far from it," Ray laughed. "And anyway, in terms of abysmal failures, you'd have some pretty stiff competition. D'you remember that time, Vic," he carried on, putting his hand on his brother's shoulder, "when that singer you used to see walked up to Mr Middleton and said—"

"Yeah, I remember," Vic said gruffly. "And I don't want reminding."

"What about you, Ray?" I said, feeling suddenly very piqued. "Do you ever bring boys to meet Mr Middleton?"

"Never," he laughed, with just the slightest touch of brittleness underneath the warmth of his voice. "I wouldn't want to waste his time."

"Oh, so there's no-one you're serious about at the moment, then?"

"No." he said, so bluntly and with such a grim expression that you might have mistaken him for Vic. Then his usual casual air reconstituted itself, and he smiled again, shrugging nonchalantly. "I'm not really the serious type."

"Anyway," Vic said, putting a hand on the small of my back. "Let's sit down. Me and you need to talk about that trip down south, Ray."

"Shall I make myself scarce?" I asked, hoping the answer would be yes. "I can amuse myself for a while, if you want me out of the way."

"No, it's alright, as long as you don't mind being bored to death listening to what Ray reckons about imports and exports."

"Mm, thrilling," I said, with a little giggle. "I think I might mingle for a while instead."

Of course, I didn't really want to socialise. Primarily, I wanted to hide in a corner and perhaps drink myself into something approaching peace of mind, but failing that, what I really wanted was another chance to talk to one very particular guest. I held my wineglass with both hands, keeping it in front of me like a talisman, and looked around casually, as if I were scanning the room for a friendly, interesting face. After a few moments of this flimsy charade, I allowed my gaze to drift leftwards, to where Patrick was sitting.

"Well, darling," he said, patting the empty space next to him, "why don't you come and sit with me?"

"Oh, yes, thank you," I said, sitting down beside him on the sofa. I put my glass down on the table and folded my hands neatly in my lap. My knees were pressed primly together, as if I were struggling to keep myself in check. There was something about Patrick that seemed to strip away the upper layers of experience and confidence I usually presented to the world, and with him, I found myself slipping back into a role I hadn't played for years. I was nervous, shy, and easily shocked. I was the twenty-year-old Stefan, being seduced for the first time. I was the seventeen-year-old Stefan, sneaking furtive glances at the object of my desire. Youth, really, was the key to all of this. Patrick made me nervous because he made me feel young, and that feeling of youth grew from the echo of myself I saw in him; he was what I might become, in five or ten years. No other type of man could have roused that feeling in me.

"You're very quiet tonight," he carried on, turning towards me a little. "I imagine you're finding all of this somewhat overwhelming?"

"Yes, very," I said, with a younger man's defenceless honesty. "I've been to plenty of clubs with Vic, but they were crowded, full of too many people to keep track of. This is so much more…"

"Intimate?"

"Yes. And of course I'm nervous to be meeting Mr Middleton for the first time," I said, keeping my eyes low, "and then there's you."

"Me?" he said, without a shred of surprise in his voice.

"Yes," I said quietly, still unable to meet his eyes. Instead I looked at the rings on his fingers, watching the light sparkle on each gemstone. "You make me nervous, but I like it."

"You're very forthright, aren't you?" he laughed softly, and I felt his hand settle lightly on my shoulder.

"Not always," I said, and finally looked up. He was watching me with that same catlike playfulness in his eyes, and that same beautiful sharp smile on his lips, almost exactly as he had been that first day. I wondered if I would ever look like that, if I could ever make such an impression on a young and timid admirer.

"Well, let me reward candour with candour, then," he said, stroking the pad of his thumb over the edge of my lapel. "Would you like to go into one of the private rooms with me?"

I glanced across at Vic, and found he was looking right at me. He nodded before I'd even asked the question. "Go on, knock yourself out," he said, with the slightest little smile. I'd brought this particular scenario up so many times, asking him in a dozen different ways what he thought of the idea of me and Patrick together, that I think he was rather relieved to see me finally move beyond idle daydreaming.

"Yes, please," I said, with a little flush of embarrassment warming my cheeks. "I'd like that very much."

Patrick stood up, and said "Follow me," lightly but somehow very firmly. The command in his voice was like a thin platinum chain around my throat, so light I could barely feel it, and yet as inescapable as if it were cast from solid metal. I followed him up the shallow little flights of stairs at the far end of the club, and onto the upper level, where the doors to all but one of the private rooms stood open and beckoning. From the mezzanine the doorways looked like panels of a blocky stained-glass window, lit up in deep, vivid colours that seemed to shine against the gentle lamplight of the lower floor.

"Which room would you like to use?" he said, gesturing towards the row of doors.

I walked slowly along the landing, peering into each empty room as I went. The first was a dark green and mahogany affair, full of old-fashioned furniture and very little ornamentation—not my style at all. The second was decorated in black and searing red, festooned in velvet and silk, with a monstrous chaise longue in the centre of the room, and a towering wrought-iron candelabra in each corner. If it had been Vic asking the question, the red room would certainly have been my answer. But for Patrick, it could only be the third room.

"This one, please," I said, standing by the doorway.

"Oh, the blue room," he laughed gently. "I thought you might be a budding martyr, and it seems I was right."

My cheeks flushed hotly, but I nodded, and followed him inside. The room was almost entirely ultramarine and gold, and as Patrick closed the door behind us, I felt as if I were being swallowed by a great purplish-blue wave. Thick chains hung from elaborate gold fixtures on the walls and ceiling, some ending in engraved manacles that could have passed for very sturdy avant-garde jewellery. At the far end of the room, there was a very large painting of Saint Sebastian, the figure of which was almost life-sized. He was quite a young-looking Sebastian, and although there was certainly a great deal of pain in his expression, there was an unmistakable glimmer of defiance in his eyes. The arrows piercing his chest and thigh seemed to simultaneously torment and bore him; he seemed to be saying to the observer, _Oh, is that all? Is that the best you can do?_

"These rooms are very well-equipped," Patrick said, smiling slightly as he watched me. "Open that cabinet, and tell me what appeals to you."

I did as I was told, without hesitation. The cabinet looked as if it ought to contain some long-dead eccentric's collection of curios; instead it held an array of whips, scourges and canes, hanging from little gold hooks against an upholstered blue velvet interior. I'd had a brief taste of almost all of these types of implement before, and generally I found myself much more interested in the touch of a cruel hand, but that night I had an appetite for something different.

"This one," I said, pointing to a long, thin leather riding crop. "Normally I like very blunt things, but tonight I want something sharper."

"Do you, indeed?" he said, with a soft laugh. I couldn't tell whether I was being indulged or mocked, but the effect in either case was the same. When he pointed one gleaming nail at the floor in front of him, and said "Bring it to me," I could only obey. I carried the crop to him rather gingerly, and held it up to him like a page presenting a monarch with his sceptre. He accepted it with a smile, and trailed the loop of the crop down across my torso, over the indigo velvet of my jacket, over the silver damask of my tie, over the purple silk of my shirt, down to the buckle of my belt.

"Take this off," he ordered.

"All of it?" I asked, but I was already slipping my jacket off as I spoke.

"Yes, darling," he said archly, folding his arms as he watched. "And be quick about it."

I stripped hurriedly, and as I removed each garment, I couldn't resist glancing at Patrick's face, trying to gauge his reaction to the sight of me. Of course he saw dozens of naked boys every day, most of whom were probably far more beautiful than me, but nevertheless I must have held some novelty for him, some attraction, and if there was even a flicker of approval in his eyes, I wanted to see it. What I saw when I looked at him, though, wasn't merely approval. It was the most ferocious, glittering, icily rapacious desire. He looked at me as if he wanted to devour me. I could imagine him seizing me with those lacquered talons, dragging me off to some freezing cold cell, keeping me there like the golden hoard of a dragon, toying with me and tormenting me as he pleased. By the time I stood naked before him, I was hot-skinned and trembling, aching to be touched.

"How lascivious," he said, tapping the loop of the crop against my hip. "If this is your reaction to merely undressing, I can see why Vic is so very taken with you."

"I can't help it," I said, slightly petulantly.

"No, dear, and that's precisely your appeal."

He led me over to a pair of manacles hanging from one of the fixtures on the wall next to the painting, and as he fastened them around my wrists, he leaned in close enough that the scent of his perfume enveloped me. I breathed it in deeply, surrendering myself to a haze of narcissus and jasmine as cold as the metal against my skin, and when I looked up at his face, Patrick was smiling down at me with diamond-sharp contempt.

"You really are tremendously susceptible to these situations, aren't you?"

"Yes," I said, looking up at the painted Sebastian. A little flicker of his insolence flared up in me and drew my smile into a smirk. "It's one of my many charms."

Patrick simply laughed. As he stepped back and took up his position, I pulled against the manacles with all my strength to see if they would hold; to my delight, they held fast.

"Now, one matter I want to make clear before we begin," he said, tracing the tip of the crop across the back of my thighs, "is that this is not a punishment. I've no intention of teaching you any kind of lesson."

"No?" I looked over my shoulder and smiled at him. "Not even if I've been terribly bad?"

"No, darling," he said, with a crisp laugh. "Bad or good, it makes no difference at all to me. I simply want to watch you suffer."

He swung the crop down across my thighs, rather lightly by my standards, and my smile barely faltered. "You'll have to try harder than that," I said, allowing a little more of Sebastian's defiance to creep into my tone, "if it's suffering you want to see."

He merely smiled, and laid down a dozen more strokes, gradually warming the skin of my buttocks and thighs with heavier and heavier blows. At each step of the way I asked for more, and as the sensation grew from stinging heat to burning pain, my requests became demands. The gentle murmur "Harder, please," became a half-moaned "More, harder, don't stop!"

"How charming," he said, coming close enough to grip my chin, "and how pretty your lips look, when they're begging."

He stepped back and began to beat me again, so viciously now that I wailed and bucked helplessly underneath the crop. My eyes were half-closed, and the few glimpses I caught of him were like frozen, still images. Even in the midst of such vigorous, violent action, he seemed perfectly composed and remote. The pain he inflicted on me seemed almost effortless.

"Does it hurt, darling?" he said, as evenly and smoothly as if he were standing perfectly still.

"Yes!" I cried, twisting against the chains that bound me. "Yes, it hurts terribly!"

"And do you want me to stop?"

"No!" I said, equally fervently. "Please don't stop, please, I need—"

The crop hit my thighs again, and I howled in delighted agony. My skin throbbed and burned with an ache that couldn't be satisfied. I tugged desperately at the chain of the manacles, twisting and thrashing under the touch of the crop, and all the while my body was crying out for pleasure to match the pain that wracked me; when I finally cried "Stop!" I was on the verge of begging to be fucked. Patrick put the crop aside and unhooked the manacles from their chain, leaving my wrists bound, and let me sink to my knees.

"Please," I said, quite hoarsely. "Please, Patrick, I want—" And there my boldness failed me. For all my earlier candour, I couldn't ask for what I needed.

"Oh, I know precisely what you want, my dear," he said, with an icy laugh. I watched him walk over to the long, low sofa at the side of the room, and as he reclined on it, I found myself growing more and more timid, as if the distance between us had amplified the nerves that already beset me. He looked pristine, even after the exertion of delivering a beating. His skin was so perfectly pale, his hair so smoothly waved, his suit so beautifully tailored, and his posture so graceful that I thought he looked more than human. He looked like the ideal image only a photograph or a film could offer, like an artist's sketch, a tall, slender daydream in turquoise and jade. I felt as if my eyes would begin to burn if I stared at him for too long.

"Come here," he ordered, rather languidly. I started to push myself clumsily up to my feet, but he shook his head and tutted. "I didn't tell you to rise, darling. I told you to come here."

My cheeks burned as I crawled clumsily over to the spot beside his feet. I knew he was watching me, but I kept my eyes on the floor in front of me as I moved. When I finally knelt before him, he laughed softly and stroked a fingertip along my cheekbone.

"Humiliation really does become you," he said, as that finger moved down to trace the curve of my lip. I stared up at him, transfixed by the glittering bronze of his eyes, the cold ivory of his skin, the pale rose of his lips. He was a picture of desire, of cultivated taste, of a sort of sophisticated hedonism that I could only dream of; kneeling before him, I felt callow and artless, and thoroughly out of my depth.

"Well," he said, cupping his hand around the back of my neck and pulling my head down towards his lap. "Get on with it, darling."

My bound hands were clumsy and slow, but somehow I managed to unbutton his trousers and slip my fingers inside. The heat of his skin surprised me, as if I'd been half-expecting cold marble rather than warm flesh. I couldn't help gasping as my hands curled around the shaft of his cock, and as I bared and stroked him, the sounds of pleasure he might have made seemed to come instead from me. I bent my head and took his cock into my mouth, and a moan of satisfaction welled up into my throat; I leaned forward, sliding my tongue down along the length of it, and another moan hummed in my chest; I came up for air, gasping and breathing hard, and when I met his eyes, the word "Please" fell from my lips as easily as a sigh.

"Carry on," he ordered, and when I obeyed, he placed one hand lightly on my hair. There was no violence in his touch. It was a purely symbolic gesture of control, and I found this simultaneously inflaming and maddening. I worked harder, sucking greedily at his cock, lapping at his flesh so feverishly that my tongue and jaw began to ache. He was mostly silent, and only gave the occasional faint murmur of encouragement, which excited and irritated me in equal parts. When he finally inhaled sharply, and said "Swallow," as matter-of-factly as if he were handing a task to one of his boys, I pushed my lips down to the base of his cock, and held my position there until I'd drained every last drop of come from him. Then I sat back on my heels, and looked up at him expectantly, preparing myself for the pleasure I thought was owed me.

"Now, then, darling," he said, reaching forward to unlock the manacles. "Put your clothes on, and I'll take you back downstairs."

I was surprised, and quite chagrined, but I did as I was told, and I kept my complaints to myself. Months later, after several very similar encounters, Patrick told me at last why he always dismissed me before I was satisfied— _You're charming, but entirely self-absorbed,_ I remember him saying, _and the only way to deal with such a boy is to meet his selfishness with an equal amount of your own._ But at the time, I didn't understand at all. I thought perhaps I'd bored him, or displeased him, or somehow put a foot wrong, and that this would be the first and last time I tasted Patrick's cruelty.

As we went back out onto the landing, my mood was sour with the faint nagging sullenness of a boy who demands that even a pleasure he only occasionally has an appetite for should nevertheless be made perpetually available to him. Then as we descended, fatigue took over, and muffled any peevishness I felt with the simple desire to be with Vic, sheltered in his arms. I had simply had enough—enough of company, enough of lights and music, enough of the need to do anything but lie down and rest. On the second step or third step, my ankles seemed to weaken, and I stumbled against the bannister. Patrick's hands caught me instantly and righted me, and we went down the rest of the steps together, slowly and gently, with him guiding me as if I were a sickly child.

"Vic, darling," he called out, as we reached the bottom of the staircase, "I think you'll want to take your little friend home to bed, he's quite exhausted."

Vic was on his feet and at my side before I could say a word.

"Look at him, he can hardly stand up straight," he said, over my head, in a slightly hushed tone, as if I were already asleep. "You've pushed him too hard, Patrick."

"Oh, what rot," I said, laughing giddily, and prodded Vic lightly in the chest. "I'm always a little weak after this kind of thing, and the only reason you're noticing it now is because I normally go to bed immediately afterwards. So don't be such a terrible grump, and," I carried on, feeling suddenly rather more magnanimous, "don't be awful to Patrick, either, or I'll ask _him_ to take me home, and you can spend the night on your own!"

Vic looked at me for a moment, with his face a perfect picture of grave concern. Then his lips quirked into a smile, and he gave a low little chuckle. "Well, he can't have pushed you that hard, if you're well enough to give me an ear-bashing."

We said goodnight to Patrick, and waved goodbye at Ray and the boys as we made our way through to the front door. It was only once we were outside, and I was leaning against the side of Vic's car, that I remembered who we hadn't said goodbye to.

"Oh!" I gasped. "We didn't say goodnight to Mr Middleton! Will he think I'm terribly rude? Should we go back in and find him?"

Vic glanced up at the dim light escaping through the shuttered windows on the top floor of the building, and shook his head. "He won't want disturbing. And besides," he said, opening the car door, "I need to get you home to bed."

"Well, _really_ …" I giggled, and then winced as I got into the passenger seat.

Vic was quiet as he started the car, but as he pulled away from the club and turned off onto the main road, he glanced at me briefly, with the most wonderfully contented smile on his lips.

I leaned back in my seat and watched his face. "What are you thinking?"

"He likes you," Vic said, rather firmly. "Mr Middleton, I mean."

"Do you really think so?" The streetlights outside seemed dazzlingly bright, and I closed my eyes as I spoke, resting my cheek against the soft leather of the seat. "I hope he does. I want him to like me. I want them all to like me. Mr Middleton, Ray, Patrick, everyone." I was rambling sleepily, but he didn't interrupt. "I want them to think: _just look at Vic and his boy,_ _you can tell how much they love each other._ I hope they can tell. I don't think I'm very good at hiding these things, anyway."

I heard Vic chuckle quietly, and his hand rested briefly on my thigh, stroking it for a few seconds, before he moved it away again. The last thing I remember before I fell asleep is the noise of the traffic outside, and the sound of Vic's breathing, quiet and calm and soft.


	10. Chapter 10

We built up a wonderful routine over the next year or so, spending almost all of our spare time together, and staying in as often as we went out. In the spring I changed jobs again, and began working in the accounts department of the city council, which gave me a much more reasonable schedule, much more free time, and even a rather sympathetic selection of colleagues. My manager there knew about my connection to Vic, and by extension to Mr Middleton, and he was quietly friendly; from his perspective, he said, Mr Middleton's control of the city was a vast improvement over what had come before, and so—strictly off the record—he was happy to turn a blind eye where he could. It made all the difference to me, to have a workplace I'd chosen myself, and to be surrounded by people who were at least not openly hostile.

In the summer, Vic gave me a key to his apartment. If I was free on a Friday or Saturday night while he was working, sometimes I'd go there an hour or two before he was due to get back, and make the place as nice as I could for him. David laughed at how domestic I'd become, but it never felt domestic. It felt like a sort of reply to the luxuries Vic lavished on me; I couldn't take him out to an expensive restaurant, but I could teach myself to make a few meals that we both enjoyed; I couldn't buy him extravagant gifts, but I could tidy the apartment and light some candles and put on some music, so that when he came through the door, all he saw was comfort. I suppose I'd put him through so much worry that I felt I owed him a lifetime's worth of relaxation.

It was on one of those evenings that I felt the first gust of the storm that almost finished us. I'd rung Vic on my lunch-break, as I often did on Fridays, meaning to ask him if there was anything special he wanted me to bring with me when I came around after work. There was no answer, but that wasn't particularly unusual; he quite often had unexpected tasks to attend to, of course, and so I didn't worry at all. I thought he was probably in a back-office somewhere with Ray, putting on his most ghoulish act to frighten some poor fool back into line. So I carried on with my afternoon, and after work I walked into the city centre, almost on auto-pilot. I stopped to buy a few things for the weekend—flowers for the lounge, a little bottle of wine, a box of the tea Vic liked—and I made it to his apartment with, I thought, well over an hour to spare. Even as I unlocked the door, I thought the place was empty. The apartment was certainly silent, and apparently dark, just as it always was on these evenings. It was only when I opened the front door that I saw the glow of dim lamplight filtering through from the bedroom.

As I made my way through the lounge, I noticed a faint smell of smoke in the air, and I worried for a moment that something had caught fire. I put my bags down, and opened the bedroom door fully, and stood there simultaneously quite relieved and very worried. Nothing had caught fire. Vic was sitting in the armchair by the bed, in the shadows, staring at something he was holding with both hands. I couldn't see what it was; it looked dark, and fairly large, but that was all I could make out.

"Vic..?" I said quietly, taking a few steps towards him. "Are you alright?"

He looked up at me, and even by the faint light of the desk-lamp, I could see the despair in his eyes. "Did you see it?"

"See what?"

"In the papers." He nodded at the bed, where a newspaper lay on top of the sheets, turned to one of the inner pages and folded back unevenly. I picked it up, and skim-read the story at the top of the page. The old Regent Theatre had burned down, it said. It was arson, apparently, but there were no suspects.

"What is this, Vic? What does it mean?"

"That place," he said, standing up, "belonged to Mr Middleton." And he took the thing in his hands, and shoved it angrily into the little waste basket by the side of the bed. I saw now that it was made of paper, and that it was burned almost to a cinder. I guessed that it must have been a poster, or a programme, that Vic had saved from the ashes.

"That's awful!" I said, coming up close. Of course it was a shame when a very old building was destroyed, and anyone would be upset to see their own property go up in flames, even if the building was disused. There was something else behind the anguish in Vic's tone, though. Something that I didn't understand, something that needed to be teased out slowly. I put my hands on his arms, and stroked them gently. "Was anyone hurt?"

"No." He didn't push me away, but neither did he touch me. He didn't even look at me as he spoke. "That's not the point. The Regent was important to him."

I still didn't really understand. As emotional as I am, I've never been the type to attach sentiment to places or buildings, so as much as I could grasp what Vic was saying in an abstract sense, I couldn't really feel it. All I seemed to be able to do was to ask futile questions. "Oh, that's such a shame," I said, hating my own uselessness. "Do you know who did it?"

"It's the same lot who've been trying to scare us off for the last six months. I should've known they'd do something like this. I should've put a stop to it."

"Oh, Vic…" I said, putting my arms around him and pressing myself to his back. "You can't blame yourself for things like this. You couldn't have—"

"I could have." He shrugged me off, and sat down again.

"Vic, please don't be so hard on yourself." I sat on the arm of the chair, and rubbed his shoulders lightly. He didn't reply. He stared silently at the floor so intently and for so long that I could almost believe he'd forgotten I was there. I kept my hands on his shoulders, stroking them gently, but he didn't react at all, not even to push me away. "It'll be alright," I said, quietly. "It'll be alright, I promise."

He didn't respond at all. I don't think he even heard me. We sat there silently together for what felt like an hour, while I tried and failed to think of comforting things to say that wouldn't sound flippant or facile. The room began to feel like a morgue. All I could do was embrace him, and even my touch seemed to pass right through him like a ghost. Finally Vic stirred slightly, moving away from me, and let my hands fall from his shoulders.

"I need some time on my own," he said, very flatly. "Sorry, Stefan."

"Oh." I stood up again, and nodded. "Oh, of course. I'll… I'll give you some space. I'll ring you tomorrow, though?"

"Yeah." He wasn't looking at me. He was staring at his hands, at the smudges of ash that still clung to them. "I'm sorry," he said again, but even a fool could see it wasn't me he was apologising to.

 

* * *

 

"Look, I'm sorry," Ray said, giving me a weak, pained smile.  "I should have phoned you and given you a heads-up that he'd be like this, but it didn't even occur to me. I think I'm still getting used to him having someone around who needs filling in, when things like this happen."

"Oh no, don't apologise," I said, putting my palms up. "You've had quite enough to deal with already, without worrying about me."

"Well, in any case, there's not much I can tell you. He's always had a tendency to get into moods like this, ever since we were kids. There's not much you can do about it, either, other than to try and be there for him until he comes out of it."

"Should I be ringing him, going round to see him, that sort of thing? Or is it better if I wait for him to make the first move?"

"No, don't wait for him, he won't reach out on his own." Ray looked down at the tablecloth, and was silent for a few moments. I watched the frown on his lips, and the creases on his brow, and I wondered how many storms like this the pair of them had weathered. "Ring him and visit him as much as you can. He gets himself into moods where he's convinced people are just tolerating him, and if you keep your distance, he takes it as proof he was right all along."

"Okay," I said, nodding. "Is there anything else I can do?"

"Well," he began, and then paused. He was silent for a moment, and when he looked up at me, his eyes seemed almost desperate. "If you ever think he's going to do something silly, ring me or Mr Middleton. I don't care if it's the middle of the night, I don't care if you're worried you're overreacting—ring me."

The thought horrified me. "Has he… Has he ever..?"

"No." Ray shook his head. "And I don't think he _would_ , but with this kind of thing it's better to be safe than sorry."

"Yes," I said, nodding again. "Yes, okay. I understand."

Even as I sat there at Ray's kitchen table, I began to plan. I had come straight over to see Ray after I left Vic's place, which meant that Vic had been alone for about an hour. I'd ring him when I got home, I decided, and then again the following morning, and then I'd go around to see him in the afternoon. I started to sketch out a rough plan of how the rest of the week would unfold, and as I was piecing it together, I felt Ray's hand rest lightly on my arm.

"Thanks, Stefan," he said, quietly. "Mr Middleton and I usually have to deal with this kind of thing on our own. And don’t get me wrong, we're happy to do it, but everything's easier with an extra pair of hands around, isn't it?"

"Yes, you're quite right." I smiled at him, and stood up. "Oh, there was one other thing I wanted to ask you—and I know you might not be able to talk about the details—but in the light of all of this…" I trailed off, and fidgeted with the buttons of my coat.

"Go on."

"Vic said that he knows who burned the theatre down."

Ray nodded. "Yeah, we knew straight away who it was."

"Well, what I wanted to ask is, since you know who did it, are you going to go after them right away? Will there be a lot of trouble, from now on?"

"Is it going to be all-out war, you mean?"

"Yes." I met his eyes, and tried to match their steadiness. "I know there's not much I can do, regardless of what happens, but I'd rather know in advance."

"You don't need to worry," he said, putting his hand very firmly on my shoulder. "There'll be repercussions, eventually, but nothing messy. Mr Middleton's got it all under control."

He sounded so perfectly calm and so absolutely trusting that I felt myself relax slightly, warmed by a little vicarious glow of confidence. Again, I envied the twins. They had so much security, and so much conviction. For that kind of certainty, all the unpleasantness they were involved in seemed to me like a very small price to pay.

 

* * *

 

It took five weeks for the cloud hanging over Vic to lift. I stayed with him as often as I could, and even when we were apart, when he was out on a job or with Mr Middleton and Ray, he was in my thoughts constantly. Whenever work was slow, my mind wandered onto the same looping track of anxieties. Whenever I was alone, I worried about him. Whenever we were together, I watched him carefully, trying to judge the precise temperature of his mood, trying to anticipate every little disturbance, every little difficulty. After five weeks, I was exhausted.

Even afterwards, when he'd been his usual self for months, I found that worrying had become a habit I couldn't break. He was doing much better, but I was a wreck. Always tired, always emotionally fragile, always jumping at shadows, always unable to relax. I felt as if I'd lost myself, somehow, while I'd been concentrating so intensely on Vic. All my thoughts were to do with him, but now it wasn't the preoccupation of lust or affection that haunted me. Now I simply worried, and fretted, and brooded.

I let it go on like that for another three months, and during that time Vic was flawlessly good to me. He was kind, and passionate, and quietly cheerful, and all the things that had made me fall in love with him, but no amount of loving treatment could stave off the worry that nagged at me, because the problem was within me, not him. I felt as if I'd spent every last ounce of energy I had during the trouble after the Regent burned down, and now I was hollow and empty; now, if another storm broke and Vic needed me, I would have nothing left to give. It frightened me. Underneath the numb upper layers of frozen feeling, I had only dread.

It was dread that pushed me through the silence I'd let accumulate around my exhaustion. The terror of failing Vic at a crucial moment is probably the only thing that made it possible for me to raise the issue at all; even then, it was the most painful conversation I'd ever had to initiate. I picked a day when Ray and Mr Middleton were both in town and would, as far as I knew, be free if Vic needed them. I waited until we were in his apartment, alone together, on what would normally have been a lazy Sunday morning. I put the conversation off again and again, deferring after each little segment of time—not now, while we're having breakfast; not now, while we're getting dressed; not now, while we're lounging so peacefully together—until the morning was almost over, and I could feel the afternoon approaching like an oncoming train. I went up to the bathroom and splashed my face with water, as cold and stinging as I could stand it, and then I forced myself to go downstairs again, and to begin the conversation before I lost my nerve.

"Vic," I said, sitting down next to him. "We need to talk."

He looked at me, and I could see him bracing himself for the unpleasantness he knew was coming. "What about?"

"Us," I said, trying desperately to find words that weren't clumsy or cruel. "You, and the way things were after the Regent…" I faltered there, and cleared my throat. "After that incident."

"Alright." He took hold of my hand, and stroked it gently with his thumb, as if I were the one in need of comfort.

"The way you were, afterwards," I carried on. "I'm not sure if…"

"If you can put up with it." He finished my sentence for me, and it was awful, too cruel and too blunt, but not far enough away from the truth for me to contradict him.

"I'm not sure if I can handle it. I _want_ to," I said, squeezing his hand. "But what I want to do, and what I'm capable of, can be very different things."

He smiled grimly, and nodded, but he didn't reply.

"I know you were trying your best, Vic."

"Yeah." He nodded again, and gave me an oddly charitable smile, as if I were the one in immense pain.

"I want you to be happy." I held one of his hands in both of mine, clasping it as firmly as I could. "You know that, don't you?"

"Yeah," he said, but the smile on his lips faltered.

"I just don't know if I've got what it takes. I don't know if I can give you what you need. I'm worried that I'll make things worse, and—" My voice cracked as I spoke, and I had to pause and clear my throat before I could continue. "And that one day you'll try to depend on me, and I'll let you down. I don't want to pretend that you can count on me, and then fail you when it really matters."

"Stefan, what are you telling me?" His voice was restrained, but there was a raw edge to it that stung me bitterly. "Are you saying you're leaving?"

"Not forever." I squeezed his hand once more, and let it go. "I'm just going away for a few days. Just to clear my head. Just to make sure."

He was silent for a moment, and very still. I couldn't read the expression on his face. It might have been despair, or it might have been acceptance. Finally he nodded, and said "When are you going?"

"Friday morning. I should be back on Monday afternoon."

"Alright." He looked at me with a very quiet kind of sadness in his smile. "Can I come and see you off?"

"Yes, please," I said, blinking a few times to clear the tears from my eyes. "I'd like that very much."

 

* * *

 

When I planned the weekend away, I deliberately chose a remote country cottage, because I thought that if I immersed myself in a very different landscape, it would make the process of clearing my head easier. I didn't want to go to another city, only to be reminded of Vic every time I saw a theatre, or nightclub, or a police station. I booked a little cottage by a lake, which—even off-season—took almost all of the savings I'd built up since I started my new job. I thought the privacy would be worth the expense, but really all I'd bought myself was a great stretch of solitude in which to torture myself with guilt and anxiety. If I'd been preoccupied with Vic at home, here I was obsessed with the memory of him. I missed him so intensely, so violently, that for a while I thought I was going mad. I cried for hours, on that first night away from him. In my hands I clutched the letter he'd given me when he saw me off at the station, and I read it so many times that I came to know each word by heart. ~~~~

He'd given me the letter, along with a little box, and told me to open both once I'd arrived at the cottage. The box held a pair of beautiful sapphire cuff-links, which I couldn't bring myself to try on. The letter was written on heavy, cream-coloured paper, in deep blue ink that suited Vic's pristine, elegant hand perfectly. I loved his handwriting. It seemed so disciplined, so precisely poised, so very different to my messy scrawl. It seemed to encapsulate everything that was right about him, and everything that was wrong about me. Each night, I slept with that letter beside me, on the pillow where Vic's head should have laid.

On the second day, I began to worry immensely about him. He'd told me before I left that he and Ray would be heading out of town on business that night, and that he didn't know when he'd be back. I hadn't pressed him for details, but the grave look on Ray's face as he waited in the car had been enough to make the nature of the job clear. I knew that Vic handled work like this regularly, and I knew that he was in no more danger that weekend than he had been on any of his previous trips, and yet a silly kind of superstition plagued me. I'd left him, if only temporarily, and surely that meant that he would now finally come to harm. If something happened, it would be my fault. Ray would blame me. Mr Middleton would blame me too, I thought. I would blame myself far more than both of them put together. I tormented myself with the idea of Vic being hurt, or worse. I barely slept at all that night.

On the third day, I felt calmer. The distress I'd inflicted on myself had finally run out of steam, and as I walked around the lake, I watched the water almost serenely. There were three swans in the distance, swimming slowly along the edge of the lake. I stood and watched them for a long time, and the more I watched, the more I felt as if what I was observing was a graceful clockwork mechanism. The swans did what any swans would do, in that particular lake, on that particular morning. They swam, and fed, and preened, exactly as their instincts dictated. I felt oddly exhilarated as I watched them— _they_ were bound by their natural instincts, but I was free to do whatever I pleased. I was suddenly extremely aware of the choice I had to make, and of my freedom to make that choice. I wasn't locked into any particular path. I could choose to leave Vic, and protect myself from ever having to go through anything like those frantic weeks after the Regent burned down. I could choose to stay, and gamble that I really did have enough courage and stamina to be the boy that Vic needed. It was all down to me.

I went back to the cottage and had lunch, and then I spent the afternoon packing. I wanted to give myself a few hours to get used to the idea, before I acted on my decision. Once I'd run out of practical things to do, I took a slow walk into the village, and went to the phonebox outside the post office.

"Vic, it's me," I said, overjoyed that he was there to answer.

"Are you back?" he said, rather cautiously.

"Not yet, I've just finished packing." I paused briefly, and tried to pick my words carefully. I wanted him to understand that I meant everything I was about to say; I wanted to be clear that this wasn't a decision I'd taken lightly. "I'm coming back tonight, and I want to come straight to your place, if you'll have me."

"Of course I'll have you." Vic paused, and I imagined him choosing his words just as carefully as I'd chosen mine. "Did you do all the thinking you wanted to?"

"Yes," I said, nodding as if he could see me. "Yes, and I know what I want. I want to be with you, no matter what."

"Do you?" He sounded happy, and embarrassed, and oddly matter-of-fact.

"Yes, more than anything. I wish you were here right now."

"Well," he said, with enough warmth in his voice to make my heart race, "we'll have to go back there together in the spring."

"Oh, no," I giggled, "you'll have to do better than that—I'm afraid this place is nowhere _near_ luxurious enough for my tastes…"


	11. Chapter 11

Even if Vic had wanted to keep the two parts of his life separate, the bond between the twins and their mentor was so close that I doubt he could have maintained that separation for long. Sometimes I wonder whether this was the reason it took Ray such a long time to develop a lasting relationship of his own; any boy he kept around for more than light entertainment would have had to maintain a good relationship with Mr Middleton too, and perhaps Ray didn't want to risk bringing someone even peripherally into the family, only to have the relationship fail further down the line. Perhaps it simply took him half a lifetime to find a boy he thought could go the distance.

I'm glad Vic was less cautious. I found Mr Middleton intimidating, of course, but even in those early conversations I felt that I was being given a gift. Vic never squandered Mr Middleton's time and attention on anything he thought trivial. Being invited out for the evening with the two of them together was an immense compliment, and as frightening as I found it—as much as it was an opportunity to embarrass myself—I felt spoiled, too. Those evenings were an interesting glimpse into the rest of Vic's life. It was only when he began to invite me along with him, for instance, that I realised he was in the habit of visiting Mr Middleton before our dates. The three of us would sit at a quiet table in one of his clubs, and they would talk lightly about their days, about whatever play or film Vic and I would be seeing later, about the interests they shared that had nothing to do with business. I had the impression that these hours of small talk were Mr Middleton's way of forgetting for a little while that he had so much power and so many obligations. It was tremendously flattering to be brought along to evenings like those; Vic must have trusted me immensely, I thought, to risk involving me in Mr Middleton's leisure time.

For me, the most enjoyable aspect of those evenings was the opportunity to watch him attending to Mr Middleton. I found the little changes in Vic's behaviour fascinating. Of course he was deferential, of course he lit Mr Middleton's cigarettes, and fetched his drinks, and helped him on and off with his coat, exactly as you would expect. But there were smaller, subtler differences that delighted me. Vic never smoked in front of Mr Middleton, for instance, and ordered very different drinks than he would if we were alone together. I asked him once what the meaning of all that was, and he simply replied: _Mr Middleton is very particular_. The fact that his particularity extended to the twins' behaviour amused me greatly, and I wondered with not a little trepidation whether it would eventually extend to mine.

Impressing him certainly worried me, but not enough to dampen my excitement when Vic sat me down one day and announced that Mr Middleton wanted us to go away with him for the weekend.

"Oh! A weekend away? Just the three of us?" I said, beaming up at him, imagining a lavish hotel, elaborate dinners, a theatre trip, and perhaps even some shopping.

"Yeah," Vic carried on, squeezing my hand in his. "He wants us to go to this health spa he really likes."

"Oh…" The smile fell from my lips. I'd never been to a spa, and the nearest thing I could imagine was the little health club at home, which I'd only ever ventured into because of a crush on a boy at school who was mad about tennis. Suffice it to say that my brush with athleticism began and ended with the one dreary, draughty afternoon I spent watching that beautiful boy descend from his pedestal to become merely a red-faced, panting, sweat-soaked teenager. "Oh, well," I stammered, trying desperately to think of a polite way to decline. "Well, you see, I've never really been a very health-conscious person, Vic, so…"

"You've got it all wrong, Stefan," he laughed. "There's a swimming pool there, but aside from that, the nearest you'll come to exerting yourself will be picking up a cocktail glass."

"Oh, I see! That's a relief," I giggled. "I thought you were going to put me through some kind of horribly strenuous ordeal."

Vic smiled, and brought his hand up to my cheek. "Only if Mr Middleton decides he wants a bit of home-grown entertainment."

 

* * *

 

That weekend held so many firsts for me. My first trip in a Pullman car. My first professional massage. The first time I'd ever _seen_ a hot tub, let alone set foot in one. But the most significant of all, for me, was that it was the first time I'd been part of Mr Middleton's entourage when he travelled outside of his own territory. That was quite eye-opening. I enjoyed trying to determine who was deferring to Mr Middleton simply because he had money, and whose deference came from the knowledge of who he actually was. There was a subtle difference, I thought. The waiters on the train were as polite and friendly to us as they were to all the other guests, for example, but the doorman at Aspen Hall was just a little more tense, just a little more attentive, and as he said "Good afternoon, sir," his tone held just a little more warmth. I wondered whether Mr Middleton was one of their regulars, and then as we went through to the lobby, a white-haired man in a pristine beige suit came forward and confirmed my guess.

"Ambrose, how are you?" the man in beige said, putting out his hand.

"Very well, thank you," Mr Middleton said, smiling warmly, "but I'm sure we'll be in even better condition once your boys have worked their magic on us."

I watched the man in beige, and tried to gauge how close the two of them were. Was Mr Middleton a friend, or just a lucrative customer? Perhaps something halfway between the two, I thought.

"Well, we've made quite a few changes since your last visit," the man in beige said, with a sly, wicked smile. "You must let me show you our new facilities."

The lobby was busy with maroon-robed guests and white-uniformed staff, the former a mixture of hawkish older men and dissolute-looking boys, the latter a very consistently-styled collection of handsome, clean-cut young men. I felt simultaneously as if I had wandered into a kind of wonderland of pleasure, and that I'd strayed into a foreign country I had no hope of ever understanding. The moment I opened my mouth to speak, I thought, I would give myself away as an ignorant outsider. If Vic's arm hadn't been resting firmly around my waist, I might have turned and fled.

"Perhaps you could give me the tour now," Mr Middleton said, "if you're free?"

"Absolutely," the man in beige said, and I had the impression that when Mr Middleton asked, he would always be free.

"Why don't the two of you go and get settled in?" Mr Middleton said, giving us a cheerful smile and an insouciant wave as he began to follow the manager away. "We'll meet in the bar later—at eight, shall we say?"

Vic said "Yes, sir," and I smiled and nodded, and it was only when Mr Middleton had disappeared through the arched doorway at the far end of the lobby that a very obvious concern suddenly struck me.

"Vic, isn't that rather dangerous?" I said quietly, putting my hand on his arm. "Letting Mr Middleton go off on his own, without any kind of bodyguard, I mean?"

Vic chuckled, and shook his head. "This whole _place_ is the bodyguard. All the staff and guests are vetted within an inch of their lives, Stefan. Even you only got the okay because I could vouch that I'd known you for years."

 _Years_ , I thought. _I like how that sounds_. Then I covered the sentiment with a giggle, and said "Oh, how very exclusive!"

And it _was_ exclusive, but in a way that went beyond the ordinary sense of needing money or connections. It was, again, another place full of people who were either involved in the same kind of business as Mr Middleton, or sympathetic to it. It surprised me how much I enjoyed being surrounded by people with that same sort of mind-set, that same sort of culture. I wasn't even in the business, and yet I seemed to have developed all the sensitivities and preferences of one of Vic's subordinates, just by being around him. It was a relief to me that no-one looked at Vic with horror when we passed them, that no-one eyed me with subtle disdain, that no-one froze mid-stride or ducked into the nearest doorway when they saw us. I suppose one of the most precious things Mr Middleton's money bought us on weekends like those was the opportunity to feel normal for a little while.

Well, as normal as anyone _could_ feel, surrounded by such luxury. The spa was a repurposed manor house, and from the outside it had seemed vast and boxy, all right-angles and sheer faces, built out of pale, unforgiving stone that gave it a fortress-like air. Inside, it was very different—once you'd made it past the intimidating exterior, you were rewarded with an avalanche of colour and intricate, rather fussy ornamentation. The lobby was quite dazzling, all vermillion and gold, but as we climbed the stairs the colours seemed to darken a little, as if we were moving from a dramatic sunset to a softer, more soothing dusk. Our room was painted in shades of mulberry and terracotta, lit with half a dozen gold-fringed lamps, and carpeted very deeply in burgundy. A broad four-poster bed stood at one end of the room, and a gleaming brown velvet sofa at the other, and both looked so inviting that I hardly knew which to throw myself down on.

"Look at all of this," I said, choosing the bed finally, and brushing my fingertips over the tapestry flowers of its curtains, before I flung myself down onto the mattress. Sprawling on my back, I could see the vaulted roof of the bed above me, and then beyond it the figures of the painted ceiling. Everywhere I looked, there seemed to be another little detail to get lost in. "Isn't it marvellous?"

"Never mind that," Vic said, quite softly. "Come and look at the _view_ , Stefan."

Out of laziness, I almost protested. Then he glanced at me, and the pleasure in his smile was too much to resist. I went over to him, and nestled against his side. Our room overlooked the gardens that stretched away from the house, and I followed Vic's gaze out across the long plain of neat green lawns, and the walls of trees that lined them. In the distance I could see a little hexagonal building, framed by a collection of smaller, wilder, dishevelled-looking trees; I could imagine Vic and I secluding ourselves there, losing hours together in that solitude. Then I shook my head and smiled to myself—why traipse all the way out to that folly, when there was a perfectly good bed right beside us?

 

* * *

 

"Everything's on Mr Middleton's tab this weekend," Vic said, as looked at the menu, "so order anything you want."

"Anything at all?"

" _Anything_." He flashed me a smile. "If you try to be frugal, he'll take it as an insult."

I wasn't sure whether Vic was telling the truth or just teasing me, but I did as he said, and ordered the most elaborate-sounding cocktail I could find. When it arrived, it turned out to be a tall glass filled with a raspberry-pink concoction, which smelled extremely sweet and tasted extremely potent. As I sipped it, I noticed Vic watching me intently.

"What is it?" I said, dabbing my lips with my fingers. "Have I spilled some of my drink?"

"No," he said, looking at my glass with a smirk. "I was just thinking, that's the same colour you go when you're embarrassed."

"Oh, what nonsense," I laughed, and then pouted. "I _never_ get that embarrassed."

"Well, boys," a warm voice said behind me. "What did you think of your room?"

"Very nice," Vic said, and at the same time, I began to say "Oh, it's lovely." I glanced at Vic, and he smiled back at me.

"Good, good," Mr Middleton said, and sat down across from us. "Oh, that cocktail looks delightful—what is it? I think I'll have one of those myself."

Just as Vic had said, Mr Middleton was—and still is—very particular, and one of his peculiarities is an odd fondness for trying the things he sees his boys and their companions enjoying. Nothing ever seems beneath him, nothing is too modern or too cheap or too juvenile, nothing is dismissed out of hand. He has such an appetite for novelty and breadth of experience, and he passed that appetite on to the twins so completely, that to this day I sometimes feel as if I can't quite keep up with the three of them.

"You've started a trend, Stefan," Vic said, with a little chuckle. "You'll have me drinking one of those syrupy things too, if I'm not careful."

It was as if Aspen Hall had worked a kind of magic on Vic. He was relaxed and happy and whimsical in a way I only usually saw in private at home. Mr Middleton, on the other hand, was as relaxed and happy here as he seemed to be everywhere else. He carried a sense of being at home around with him, I thought, so that a city street or a nightclub or a hotel were all the same to him. He was in his element anywhere and everywhere. I watched him, shyly at first, and then rather more boldly as my second drink took hold, and tried to guess whether he'd always been so comfortable, or if it was a talent that came with age. The lines around his eyes and mouth were deep and plentiful, and that, I thought, suggested a lifetime spent looking on calmly, smiling indulgently as the world unfolded around him. His hands were lively as he gesticulated to emphasise a point, but they never fidgeted—he folded them on the table, never toying with the glittering rings that would have attracted my fingertips like flowers would a restless bee. By the end of my second drink, I had decided that even Mr Middleton's clothes were an expression of his essentially unflappable nature. His cream suit was a declaration that the world couldn't touch him; the tiny flowers embroidered on his lilac tie and handkerchief were a statement of frivolity; his smooth pearled cuff-links summed up the calmness that surrounded him. I was very impressed, and if he'd stayed with us all evening, I might have eventually been bold enough to tell him so.

We were partway through our third drinks of the evening when a waiter came over to deliver a little note to Mr Middleton. He read it, and glanced across to the table opposite ours, where a pair of very tanned blond boys were sitting. They'd been staring quite openly at us since we first sat down, but with my usual blinkered view of things, I'd assumed that it was Vic they were admiring.

"Well, then," Mr Middleton said, smiling first at Vic, and then at me. "Do you think the two of you could entertain yourselves for the rest of the evening?"

"Oh, of course," I said, at the same time as Vic nodded and said "Of course, sir." We smirked at each other, and I couldn't help giggling.

"In that case, I'll leave you boys to it." Mr Middleton chuckled, and patted Vic on the shoulder as he rose from his seat. I watched him making his way over to the blond boys, saying something inaudible to them as they stood up, and then slipping an arm around each of their waists. The three of them walked off together towards the main staircase, and in a few moments they had disappeared from sight.

"Mr Middleton doesn't waste any time at all, does he?" I said, turning back to Vic.

"Not in a place like this, he doesn't." Vic laughed, and slipped his arm around my shoulders. "And neither should we."

"Oh, I'm not in a rush…" I laid my head on his arm, and smiled up at him. "At the moment I'm happy just enjoying the scenery."

"Oh yeah? Anything in particular caught your eye?"

"Well, there is this very striking man I've seen," I said softly, "and he's got the most intimidatingly handsome face, and a beautiful physique, and hands that look like they could snap me in two. Just looking at him gives me the shivers…"

Vic laughed again, and kissed my forehead. "Sounds like I've got competition."

"Mm, and I'd go up to his hotel room at the drop of a hat, if he asked me."

"Since when do you wait to be asked?"

"Oh, I don’t know, perhaps I'm feeling very demure tonight…" I giggled, and looked away with mock bashfulness, and that's when I noticed the young man at the bar who was watching us very intently. "Or on second thoughts," I said, squeezing Vic's hand, "perhaps I'm more in the mood to show off…"

Vic followed my gaze across to the bar, and when I glanced at him again, he was smiling just slightly. The young man suited both our tastes, I thought: dark-haired, with honey-brown skin, sharp features and a tall, slim frame; a little older than me, perhaps, but much younger than Vic; wearing a white suit, a bold smile, and playful look in his eyes.

"Yeah," Vic said, nodding, "I'm in the mood for a show too."

I leaned in closer, and spoke softly. "Shall I go across and talk to him?"

"No, leave it to me." Vic smiled, stood up, and then leaned down to kiss me. "You wait there and save your energy."

"Alright," I said, with a little giggle. "Don't leave me for long, though. I might get bored and wander off with a strange man…"

As I watched Vic make his way over to the bar, in a way I envied the boy in the white suit. I could see him tensing slightly as Vic approached, and I remembered the mixture of fear and desire that welled up in me the first time I ever saw Vic, the first time he spoke to me, the first time we touched. Watching another boy go through the same pulse-quickening conversation gave me a thrill as intoxicating as anything I'd drunk that evening. By the time Vic beckoned me, I was already hot-skinned and dry-mouthed with excitement. By the time the boy in white followed us out of the bar and up to our room, I was so impatient to begin that I would have quite happily disrobed right there on the main staircase, if Vic had told me to.

"Do you think we look good together?" I said, smiling at Vic, as I slid my arms around the boy's neck.

"Yeah." Vic nodded, and turned to lock the door behind us. "But you'd look better naked."

The boy wound his arms around my waist, and murmured "Your friend's quite blunt, isn't he?" very softly, close to my ear.

I gave a quiet little giggle. "You don't know the half of it, dear."

The boy laughed, and cupped his hand around the back of my neck, pulling me into a deep, hungry kiss. I could taste something sweet and heavy and moreish on his tongue, like a cocktail full of cream and honey. It made me ravenous for him. We clutched at each other as we kissed, tugging our jackets and ties off hurriedly, unbuttoning our shirts with matching clumsiness, kicking off our shoes and throwing our trousers aside as if we were in competition to see who could strip naked first. He had the advantage; I was distracted by the feeling of his bare skin brushing against mine, and I kept pausing to run my hands over his back, down along his sides, down over his hips. When I finally stood naked in front of him, the boy looked at me with a blaze of desire lighting up his eyes, and pushed me roughly backwards onto the bed.

"You're beautiful," he said, running his palms down across the length of my chest and stomach.

 _Oh, nonsense,_ I wanted to say—then he bent his head and darted his tongue out to lick a wet trail along the shaft of my cock, and the words were lost in a gasp. He lapped at me gently, moving lower little by little, spreading my legs gradually wider and wider as he moved, and when at last he cupped his hands around my buttocks and trailed his tongue down between them, I was on the verge of begging to be fucked. His lips and tongue felt hotter there than against my cock, hotter and much wetter somehow, and as he licked teasing circles around the rim of my ass, I felt desperate, feverish, half-mad with pleasure.

"Here," Vic said, as he knelt beside my head. His jacket and tie were gone, his collar was unfastened, and his sleeves were rolled up; he looked as if he were prepared for hard, dirty work. I wondered what the other boy made of him, what he understood by Vic's appearance, what he thrilled to see. Then Vic grabbed a handful of my hair and dragged my head towards him, and I could think of nothing but the feeling of his cock sliding into my mouth. Even with a pretty stranger's tongue distracting me, Vic still had almost all of my attention. He held my head in place and fucked my mouth just as roughly as he would have if we were alone, and with my eyes closed, with my senses full of the taste of his skin, it seemed almost as if we were.

"You're too much," the boy said, breathing hotly against my thigh. "I can't resist."

His tongue moved up and began to lap at my cock again, and his fingers slid down to take his tongue's place, first slicking something cool and wet across my skin, then pushing forward. His fingers crooked and twisted and stroked the most sensitive part of me, so delicately and yet so mercilessly that if it hadn't been for Vic's cock filling my mouth, I would have begged pitifully for more. Instead I made desperate, hungry little noises, and clung to Vic's legs with both hands, trying to anchor myself with the sturdiness of his body. The boy's fingers moved faster, and I arched my back. He moved his hand away, leaving me empty for a moment, and I groaned in frustration. I heard him laugh softly, and then felt the warmth of his hips between my thighs, the tight grip of his hand under my knee, the hardness of his cock sliding between my buttocks, and then the pressure of it sinking into me. I heard his breath hitch, and then a little murmured curse, and then my own moans drowned him out, even muffled against Vic's skin.

"Don't be gentle with him," I heard Vic say, "he can take it a lot rougher than you'd think."

The boy laughed and said "Well, so can I."

He began to fuck me, delivering his thrusts mercilessly fast, like a hail of punches that knocked a string of little gasps and groans out of me.

"Can you?" Vic said, rather gruffly. "We'll see about that."

He pulled away from me, and at first I didn’t realise why—I murmured in frustration, and tried to arch up to lick at him again, before my mind caught up with Vic's intentions. Then I laid back, and watched him grab hold of the boy's hair, just as he would have grabbed mine; I watched him pull the boy's head forward roughly, and slide his cock between those rosy, smiling lips; I watched him thrust forward into the boy's mouth, driving hungry little moans from that honey-brown throat; I watched it all, and still wanted more.

"Wouldn't you rather fuck him, Vic?" I said, reaching out to stroke the few inches of Vic's cock that weren't buried in the boy's throat. "Wouldn't you rather give him what he's giving me..?"

The boy made an enthusiastic little noise, and pulled back just enough to speak. " _I'd_ rather you did, too," he said, smirking up at Vic. "So I think you're outnumbered."

"There could be ten of you boys in here," Vic said, "and I still wouldn't be outnumbered."

He got up from the bed, and went around to stand behind the boy, with what I thought was surprising speed and grace. He'd been drinking at the same pace as I had, but he seemed as sober and sharp now as if he hadn't touched a drop. As I watched Vic taking hold of the boy's shoulder, pushing him down into position, preparing to fuck him, I found that clear-headedness immensely exciting. I could drink all night, I thought, and Vic would be there to look after me, to steer me, to control me and keep me safe. I wanted to reach out to him and tell him how much I wanted him, how much I loved him, but then embarrassment took over, and I laid back silently to watch.

As Vic pushed forward, the boy's mouth fell open and his eyes fluttered shut, and despite the obvious effort he was putting into holding still, I could feel his cock twitching inside me, throbbing and pulsing, thicker and hotter now than ever. The boy groaned, and I matched the desperation in his voice with my own. Then he began to move again, fucking me in the same slow, heavy rhythm that Vic was inflicting on him, and each time his cock slammed into me I felt as if the force of both thrusts had struck me, hammering ruthlessly against just the right spot, at just the right angle, too cruel and too powerful to resist. I didn't even try to hold off. I worked my hand a little faster over my cock, and threw my head back, and cried out desperately as I came.

It was quite callous of me, but after I'd finished, I didn't pay very much attention to the other boy. I just watched Vic through half-closed eyes, tracing the lines of pleasure in his furrowed brow, drinking in the hardness of his lips and eyes, as he used the boy.  Our guest must have come at some point, but I didn’t notice when or how. My eyes and mind were fixed on Vic, completely and utterly. It was his cruelty I revelled in, when he yanked the boy's head back roughly and dug his fingernails into that smooth brown shoulder; his abandon I savoured, when he hissed a seething little curse; his expression I wanted to imprint in my memory forever, when he finally grew still, and looked down at me with tired, happy eyes. For me, he was the beginning and the end of every desire.

 

* * *

 

I leaned back, and tried to subtly position myself so that I could glance at Mr Middleton whenever Vic came up to our end of the pool. I was still quite shy around him, though he'd been nothing but kind to me. I still couldn't look directly at Mr Middleton for very long without flushing pink and turning away. So I arranged myself on my back, but angled slightly to one side of the lounger, and as I watched Vic's body slicing through the water, I occasionally let my gaze stray across to his other observer. Mr Middleton was watching Vic with a sort of nonchalant pride. The approval in his eyes was very clear, but the attention he gave Vic was relaxed and generous, and quite different to the grasping gaze I'd been expecting. Years before, I'd known a handful of boys who had much older patrons, and I suppose I'd filled in my idea of Mr Middleton with details borrowed from those few men; I expected him to have the same jealous temperament, the same desire to monopolise his boys. It was quite a surprise to me to watch Mr Middleton's eyes moving from Vic's body to the faces of the other guests lounging by the pool, and to see the warmth of pride still lighting up his face.

"He's a wonder to behold, isn't he?" Mr Middleton said, turning to me.

"Oh, yes," I stammered, and tried to cover my nerves by taking a long sip of my drink. "It must be wonderful to have that kind of talent for physical things."

"Oh, it's more practice than talent." Mr Middleton picked up his cup of tea, and looked down to the far end of the pool, where Vic was pushing himself off from the wall again. "He spent quite a lot of time swimming and boxing as a young man, since I thought it might help with his temper."

"Was he very good at boxing, too?" I said, imagining the young Vic shirtless and gleaming with sweat, beating his opponent with ease, standing over the other boy's prone body with the same frown of concentration I saw on his face when he stood over me.

"Not at all," Mr Middleton laughed. "But he enjoyed it, and it gave him an outlet for all that energy of his."

"Mm, I can imagine," I said, rather more breathlessly than I intended.

Mr Middleton chuckled, and mercifully redirected the conversation. "That was how I hit upon the idea of the boys' clubs, you know."

"Oh, was it?" I said, seizing the change of topic gratefully. "They're such a wonderful idea—how many do you have, these days?"

"Never enough, by my standards!" he laughed, and began to tell me in great detail about the new boys' clubs he'd opened over the summer. They were all based in the outlying villages on the border of his territory, in what he called the forgotten lands, and to me they sounded like a noble but slightly boring enterprise—until he mentioned that the clubs facilitated arts workshops as well as sports, and then I had a sharp sudden pang that fell somewhere between regret and envy. I wondered how different my teenage years would have been, if there had been a club like that in my village, if there had been just one place that catered for boys like me, just one refuge from school and sports and the whole ghastly machinery of normal youth. I began to feel wistful, and I looked out towards the swimming pool, at just the right moment to catch a sight fit to wash away any amount of melancholy.

"And of course, there are some inter-club activities—" Mr Middleton stopped too, caught by the same image that transfixed me.

Vic was climbing out of the pool, taking the steps of the ladder quickly and vigorously. Water clung to the cropped grain of his hair, and ran in thin streaks down across the muscle of his arms and chest. The bluish lights above us picked out each rivulet like a little thread of glitter, and my eyes followed the path of water, rushing down lightly and impatiently towards the dark hair of his forearms and stomach, towards the broad heaviness of his hands, towards the tight wet fabric of his trunks, and there my shyness forced my eyes away—to Mr Middleton, who was watching Vic with a kind of enjoyment in his eyes which, while not the same variety as mine, was certainly a close cousin. Mr Middleton glanced at me, smiled warmly, and gave me a wink that said in hushed tones: _Aren't we lucky?_ I returned his smile, and looked down at my glass. What must it feel like, I wondered, to have someone as formidable as Vic as your plaything? What did Mr Middleton see, where I saw strength and protection? What did Vic look like, from the vantage point of so much age and power?

"D'you know what I feel like now?" Vic said, giving the two of us a broad, almost swaggering smile.

I stretched out in my seat, and took a sip of my drink. "Mm, I think I can guess…"

 

* * *

 

"Sit down," Mr Middleton said, pointing to the long, low sofa opposite the window. "Would you like a glass of water?"

I closed the hotel room door behind me, sat down precisely where he'd indicated I should, and said "Yes, please."

A few months ago, I'd have been surprised that he offered me only water, but by that point his rules seemed almost natural to me. I accepted the drink and held it in both hands, in the hopes that the cold glass would sap some of the warmth from my overheated skin. I was too susceptible, too susceptible by far to sit calmly in a room alone with him. I tormented myself with it, as we made transparent small-talk together. My eyes darted skittishly across his seated form, and I drank in the sight of him in nervous little sips. His smile, affable and gentle. His hands, laying casually on the arms of his chair. The flint-grey of his suit, and the bright purple of his tie. He was too much to take in all at once, but the effect he had on me was a very subtle sort of overwhelming, a world away from the plain-faced awe Vic inspired. Vic was frightening to look at, in the way a jagged cliff face was frightening; Mr Middleton had a kind of warmth that drew you in, insistently and irresistibly, even as a little voice in the back of your head whispered warnings to you.

Before long, those whispers were interrupted by a knock, and Vic's voice calling quietly from outside. "Can I come in, sir?"

Mr Middleton smiled at me, and said "Yes, do come in, Victor."

The door opened, and Vic came into the room wearing that same proud smile he'd worn an hour earlier beside the pool. He was fully-dressed again now, in a pale grey suit that I hadn't seen before, with a lavender shirt and a silver tie that matched Mr Middleton's colours perfectly.

"Oh, did you think you might be interrupting something..?" I said, with a giggle that did an admirable job of masking my nerves.

"No." Vic shook his head, and reached down to grab hold of my wrist. "I know you wouldn't get started without me."

"Well, we do need all the players on stage," Mr Middleton said, "before the show can begin."

Vic pulled me to my feet, and as I stood up, the air in the room seemed to change. Now it was hot and thick and alive with intention. Vic positioned me in the centre of the room, and turned me around so that I was facing Mr Middleton, and when I met those warm, smiling eyes, I thought very clearly: _that's where the spark in the air comes from, it's all from him_.

Mr Middleton glanced up at Vic, and said "Undress him."

Vic began to strip me with slow, deliberate hands. It surprised me; he usually tore my clothes off hurriedly, but Mr Middleton's presence seemed to have changed the tone of Vic's ardour entirely. Now he unfastened and discarded each garment with the restraint of a careful child unwrapping a gift in front of the giver. I kept my eyes on Mr Middleton as Vic undressed me, and when at last I stood naked in front of him, I felt—rather prematurely—that all my shyness had drained away. I felt as if I could keep looking right at him no matter what Vic and I were doing, as if I could watch Mr Middleton's reactions boldly and unflinchingly, as if I could stare right into the sun and not be blinded.

"It seems strange that this is finally happening," I said, with a little smiling glance at Vic. "I've thought about it so many times."

"I know you have," Vic laughed, and cupped his hand tightly around the back of my neck. He dragged me into an embrace, then into a kiss, and as I clung to him I felt suddenly very aware of how exposed I was. My nakedness must have looked so soft and vulnerable compared to the armour of suits, waistcoats, shirts, ties, glittering cufflinks and gleaming leather shoes. I looked so different to them even when I was fully-dressed; naked and aroused as I was, I must have looked like nothing so much as a flimsy toy, a paper doll in white and pink and blond. When Vic let go of me, without thinking I sank to my knees, and slipped a hand down into my lap so swiftly that he smiled and shook his head.

"Look at him, sir."

Mr Middleton chuckled. "Is this your doing, Victor?"

"No, sir. He's been like this since day one."

I stroked myself slowly, leaned back a little, and smiled up expectantly at Vic. "Like what..?"

He laid his hand on top of my head, lightly at first, and for a moment I thought he was going to deny me. Then his fingers twisted in my hair, and he tightened his grip viciously, and said "Like a filthy little whore."

I reached up and stroked one hand over his lap, tracing my palm along the ridge of his cock, and then began to unfasten his fly. "You say such _awful_ things, Vic…"

"Yeah, and every one of them's true."

I circled both my hands around his cock and began to lick at the head of it, slowly and showily, with more patience than I'd ever been able to muster before. My tongue trailed up and down along his shaft, and my fingers followed its path, so much more languidly than I could have managed at home. I must have looked like one of those boys who'd had so many good times that he felt no need to rush any more; I must have looked, very briefly, as if I wasn't almost overcome with excitement. By the time I finally bent my head to take his cock into my mouth, I'd reached my limit. I abandoned that languid pose and threw myself into the task, but even as I sucked Vic's cock, I couldn't help glancing up at Mr Middleton every so often. I wanted the feeling of that hard shaft forcing its way into my throat, but I wanted to see Mr Middleton's reaction, too. I wanted to taste Vic's skin against my tongue, but I wanted to feel Mr Middleton's eyes on my mouth, on the wetness of my lips and the blush of my cheeks. Half my mind was on our audience, and perhaps that made me sloppy, but I didn't care. If Mr Middleton was happy with the performance, that would be enough for Vic, and enough for me, too.

"Put him over the bed, Victor."

The words stopped Vic instantly, and he pulled out of my mouth without hesitation. His cock rested against my cheek for a moment, heavy and wet and tauntingly close, before he hauled me to my feet and shoved me into position. The wooden bedstead was high and broad, and looked tremendously sturdy; I held onto it as if for dear life, as Vic prepared me.

"Look at you," he said, as I squirmed and wriggled against him. He slid his cock into me slowly, and each inch of it seemed too much and not enough, all at once. "You can barely keep still, can you?"

"I need it," I said softly, but loud enough for our audience to hear. "Vic, don't make me wait, please, fuck me…"

There was a pause, and I looked back at Vic. He was looking at Mr Middleton, and when I followed his gaze, Mr Middleton smiled warmly and nodded. That was all the permission Vic needed. He began to fuck me, slowly and deeply, drawing out almost completely each time, and slamming back into me with a frightening kind of force. I felt as if he were trying to shake me to the core, as if he were trying to break me from the inside out, as if I were some teetering structure being slowly and relentlessly demolished. I moaned myself hoarse, as much for my own pleasure as for Vic's or our observer's. I loved to hear the trembling in my voice, as the force of his body shook mine. I loved any evidence of the effect he had on me. The shiver in my words, the soreness in my throat, the bruises on my wrists, the deep ache inside me, all of it. I loved every bit, and I told him so, as unashamedly as I could.

"Harder," I moaned. "More, please, make it hurt…"

He yanked hard on my hair. "You want it that badly?"

"Yes," I gasped, "please, I need it…"

He gave a short, rough laugh, and said "Then show Mr Middleton."

"Show him what?"

"What a slut you are," he said, as he pulled out. "How much you need it."

He turned me around a little, positioning me carefully so that Mr Middleton had a perfect view. The air was cold against the wet skin of my ass and thighs, making a cool finger of each trickle of oil. Mr Middleton's eyes were anything but cold. He watched with clear, warm approval as I spread my legs a little wider, and when I reached back to stroke a hand across the curve of my buttock, he smiled indulgently at me, as if I were a dog performing tricks.

"You can see, can't you, sir?" I said, gripping and kneading my own flesh with a weak little echo of the force Vic usually gave me. "You can see how much I want it, can't you?"

"My dear boy," Mr Middleton said, "I can see everything."

I spread myself wider, displaying myself shamelessly, and stroked my fingertips lightly around the rim of my ass. I only meant to tease myself, but even the touch of my fingertips was too much to resist; I slid first one finger into my ass, then a second, and a third, but it wasn't enough. It wasn't anywhere near enough. "Please," I said, moving my eyes away from Mr Middleton at last. "Please, Vic, fuck me again…"

"What d'you reckon, sir?" Vic said, stroking his hand down over my back. "Shall I give him what he wants?"

"No," Mr Middleton said, and when I pouted, he laughed. "Bring him over here."

Vic's hands were rough and tight around my arms as he hauled me across to Mr Middleton's chair, and when I was in position, he shoved me down onto the floor with a jolt so hard that no amount of thick carpeting could save my knees. I watched Mr Middleton's hands working unhurriedly over the buttons of his fly, then baring and stroking his cock, and at that sight I couldn't suppress a moan.

"Look at that face, sir," Vic said, yanking my head back hard. "He's like this every time. You'd think he hadn't been fucked for weeks, the way he goes for it."

Mr Middleton reached out and cupped his hand around the back of my neck. "Some boys," he said, as he pulled me forward, "are simply inveterate whores."

Before I had a chance to reply, my mouth was full of his cock, full of the taste and the scent of his skin, full of the subtle bitter spice of age and power, and I lost myself in the hunger for it. I felt as if I were gorging myself on something that should have been taken in slow sips, but I didn't care. The smooth wool of his trousers grazed my cheeks each time I pushed down, as soft and cool as the hand on my neck was warm and firm. That hand drove me quite mad. It held me down every so often, keeping me in place just long enough that I began to struggle, and then relented. Over and over, that hand brought me up to the edge of desperation, and then petted me kindly as the moment of panic withdrew. It was such a heady mixture that I began to chase the feeling myself, pushing just a little too far and too fast, urging my body to the point of shuddering, unconscious resistance, and moaning happily around his cock as the feeling withdrew. Having had a small taste, I couldn't get enough; how, I wondered, did Vic ever manage to do anything but this?

"Take him again, Victor."

The command sounded somehow very distant. The rough hands that seized my hips were anything but. Vic held me still and slowly pushed his cock back into me, and I gave a long, muffled groan that seemed to amuse Mr Middleton greatly. I could feel him chuckling, the hum of it vibrating through his body, through the fingers that still gripped the back of my neck. Then Vic began to fuck me in earnest again, and that hum was drowned out by the moans he knocked out of my body. He fucked me savagely, with what I thought must have been all his strength, as brutally and relentlessly as if he were beating me. The force of it turned my moans almost into wails, and coaxed my hands finally into action. I'd been holding back, keeping myself in check, because I knew the moment I began to touch myself I'd have no chance of slowing down. Now I didn't care. Now I curled both hands around my cock and stroked myself greedily, frantically, desperately, not caring even if I'd be spent in a matter of seconds.

"Filthy slut," Vic said, grabbing hold of my hair. He yanked my head back and pulled me up away from Mr Middleton's cock, so that my mouth was suddenly empty and my tongue suddenly free. "This is heaven for you, isn't it?"

"Yes," I said, bringing my left hand up to stroke Mr Middleton's shaft, while my right stayed wrapped around my own. "I need it so much, Vic…"

He held me in place, forcing me to keep looking into the warmth of Mr Middleton's eyes, as he fucked me. "Why?"

"Because…" I began, but I couldn't say it unprompted. I bit my lip, and pushed back against him, and stared up helplessly at Mr Middleton.

"Because you're a dirty little tart, that's why." He twisted his hand in my hair, hard enough to make me cry out, and brought his other hand up to my throat. "Say it."

"Because I'm…" The words slipped away from me, and I let another groan well up in their place.

"Say it," he demanded again, and between the heat in his voice and the iron in Mr Middleton's eyes, I was helpless.

I squeezed my eyes shut, and moaned "Because I'm a dirty little tart…"

"Open your eyes," Mr Middleton commanded, quite softly. His hand touched my cheek, and my eyes opened without hesitation.

"Look at Mr Middleton when you say it," Vic ordered, tightening his grip on my hair and neck. I squirmed against him, groaning softly in the back of my throat, but he wouldn't relent. "What are you?"

"A dirty little tart…" I answered, with my face burning white-hot. Every word I'd ever fantasised about, every name I'd ever called myself or begged Vic to call me, every bit of it sounded immeasurably worse and more wonderful with Mr Middleton's eyes fixed on mine. I felt more exposed by this than any physical act I might have performed in front of him. Now he knew precisely what excited me, what haunted me, what I fantasised about—I'd shown Mr Middleton almost every inch of my body, and now I was laying bare every inch of my mind.

"And what a pretty one you make," he said, with a light, soft laugh. He pushed my hand aside, put his fingers where mine had been curled, and began to stroke himself slowly. "Carry on," he ordered, guiding my free hand back down to my own cock, "I want to see you pleasuring yourself thoroughly."

I did as I was told, and let my eyes roam over Mr Middleton as I touched myself, greedily drinking in every detail that sharpened my pleasure. The pristine white cuffs of his shirt; the lined skin of his hands, and the fine grey hair on the backs of them; the thick, reddish shaft of his cock, and the darker tip of it, still slick and glossy with my saliva. Then, surmounting it all, the feeling of Vic's hands on me, his body pressed against mine, his cock filling me, dragging me up to the edge of satisfaction and holding me there like a prisoner.

"Can I come? Please, Vic, let me come…" I begged, pleading as much to Mr Middleton with my eyes as to Vic with my tongue.

"It's not up to me," he said, with a brief, harsh laugh. "Ask Mr Middleton."

My eyes had been fixed on Mr Middleton's hand, watching its path as it stroked up and down over his cock, and now I found it difficult to meet his gaze again. I had to force my eyes upward, and to hold them there took so much effort I thought they might begin to water from the feeling of being dazzled. I felt as if I were praying.

"Please, Mr Middleton," I said, wetting my suddenly dry lips with my tongue. "Let me come, sir, please, I'm so close…"

"Then come," he ordered, smiling down at me with absolute beneficence. "Come for me, Stefan."

As soon as Mr Middleton had given his permission, Vic's hands tightened on me and his pace quickened; he gave me exactly what I needed, and when I came, it felt as much his work as mine. I cried out hoarsely, and threw myself back against him, and twisted and shuddered as if he were wringing the life out of me, and when at last it was done, I sagged forward, and leant my forehead against Mr Middleton's knee. Very distantly, I heard him say "Now you, Victor."

Vic's hands moved up to my shoulders, and he held me tightly in place as he fucked me, as if he were afraid I'd slip out of his grasp. As Vic began to come, I heard Mr Middleton groan softly, and then I felt another set of fingers on my shoulder; Mr Middleton had moved his hand to cover Vic's. Gingerly, I slipped my own hand up and let it rest beside theirs, not forcing the issue, but merely making the offer. Their fingers moved, and covered mine. Vic's palm, calloused and broad; Mr Middleton's long, warm fingers; and my own trembling hand, sheltered under theirs. I felt flimsy and inconsequential, and yet utterly protected, utterly cherished, beyond anything I could have imagined all those years before. I felt loved, and nothing could have been more perfect.


End file.
